


extension *95

by joeri



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Closeted Character, Comedy, Gay Awakening, Homophobia, Light BDSM, M/M, Phone Sex, Sexual Humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2020-10-24 05:36:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 33,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20700797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joeri/pseuds/joeri
Summary: it’s not about the sex, it’s about the journey it takes to get there.or—the one where sylvain calls a sex hotline.





	1. Chapter 1

Sylvain’s dick is in his hand and he’s tired of browsing PornHub.

That’s usually how this whole train wreck starts: the inability to climax and the boredom in seeing girls that look barely legal get slammed in every orifice known to man (and a few he’d never considered.) It’s kind of… gross to him. Color him insecure for thinking that porn made for men kinda sucks.

Well, porn made for straight men, at least.

It’s not like he doesn’t notice it that his heart rate increases, his dick twitches a little harder when the video pans over to the man. It’s not like he hasn’t noticed that a predominant tag in his horny escapades has been _‘anal’_ and _‘POV.’_ It’s not like Sylvain is gay or anything.

Except he is, and he knows that he is. It’s just a little different when you let your browser history know. Then it feels like he’s really documenting the shit for the FBI to jot down. Every time it gets to this point he’s desperate to get this over with. Coming has henceforth become a chore, or a challenge of sorts. You’d think that with his dick beaten half to death for four hours straight with nothing to show for it that he’d quit.

But Sylvain Jose Gautier is no quitter. He may be closeted, but he doesn’t stop whacking until he unleashes what he’s packing.

That’s why he’s gone and dialed up this hotline. Because, hearing a real life girl talk naughty to him will induce _something_, he’s sure. He’s probably bi, really. That helps him to feel better. If he’s at least a little bit into girls, it’s not so bad.

Still, he thinks that he knows what he’s about: being bossed around’s kinda hot?

He leans back in his computer chair, letting the soft blow of the window-installed personal air conditioning unit work some soothing magic on his red-raw cock. This lotion he’s been using is scentless and yet his pecker’s still burning like he slapped some icy-hot on it or something.

Again though: _not_ a quitter.

Fanning himself, Sylvain slouches further as the girl finally picks up. She’s been described as something of a soft-dominatrix, not overly cruel or aggressive but high on the humiliation and dirty talk. That’s some shit Sylvain likes. Just go and tell him what a bad boy he’s been.

“Who’s this?” she answers.

The tone confounds Sylvain. Did he… call the wrong number?

“Uh—” Laughing to himself, he scratches his stomach blankly. “Name’s Sylvain, do I have the wrong number?”

“I don’t know, _do_ you?” she giggles. “Could it be that you wanted me to answer in a more demure fashion or grovel and call you ‘stud’?”

Snorting, Sylvain’s head shakes. “Not at all. I read your profile. I’m here for your degradation.”

“Wow, a quick cut to the chase. You men always know what you want when you want it. I bet you’re loaded too. Some flunk out college boy with a rich family that lets you blow your money on calling women to tell you you’re garbage. You know _any_ woman could do that, right?”

Sylvain shivers, not sure if out of pain or delight.

“Actually, I’m a straight a student—”

“Oh!” she exclaims, so loud that Sylvain jostles in his seat, absorbed. And then, “you actually think that I _care_.”

He blinks. Yeah, why did he start telling her that? Normally he keeps that shit to himself. Maybe he’s feeling defensive. That can’t be good. He fakes a smile, as if the woman on the other line can tell (as if the woman on the other line can care.)

“Oh, my bad for making that awful, awful assumption Miss Dorothea.” His voice could _not_ carry more insincerity if it tried.

There’s an obvious smile in her voice when she says, “you called me to get put in your place, so you’d better find it before I hang up,” as sweet as cherry pie.

As much as he sweats, he knows that she won’t click off the phone with a customer shoveling out stacks just to talk to her. The role-play keeps him going, though. It’s only in his best interest that he concede the point and keep his suspended disbelief… well, suspended.

“Understood, miss,” he says in a nod.

“Now grip your cock and don’t let go, and _don’t_ stroke yourself either.”

Nodding again, this time with a bite of his lip, Sylvain does as he’s told and says, “you’ve got it.”

Dorothea sighs and Sylvain can just imagine her popping a gum bubble and twirling a 90’s phone cord about her finger. She’s got that kind of attitude when she exhales. Having never done this kind of thing before, Sylvain went for the cheapest number on the website. Dorothea didn’t even list any photos to aid her business, whereas every other girl supplied pictures to help enhance the fantasy. He imagines she’s got berry-red lipstick on and long, straight blond hair.

And then realizes he’s not super attracted to that, oddly enough.

“Now, why don’t you tell me what you like and I’ll see if I can do anything for you. You might be hopeless.”

Sylvain laughs. “I hope not. That’d be a waste of both your time and mine.”

But where does he start? Might as well put his money where his mouth is.

“I’d like you to let me fuck your ass,” he utters as cool as all get out.

Humming, or perhaps making a subtle moan, Dorothea either seems to deeply resonate with the request or judge it intently. And then she says, “oh, you like anal,” with more disgust dripping off her tone than Sylvain’s ever heard.

She says, cold as ice, “I guess you didn’t read my do’s and don’t’s page that thoroughly. No to anal means no. It doesn’t mean ‘dial me up and try and convince me otherwise.’”

Oh, _whoops._

“Fuck, I didn’t see that. Sorry ab—”

“No, you’re not sorry,” she cuts in with a smile. “You think that you can get away with that? Oh, of course! Because you’re a rich little college boy who can’t talk to a girl long enough to actually fuck her in her asshole. Why do you want to so badly? Do you think you’d actually know what to do once you were in there?”

Swallowing with ample difficulty, Sylvain stiffens his fingers and bids them not to move.

“Y-yeah, I mean…”

“If you’re calling me, you don’t have girls to fuck and have probably _never_ had girls to fuck. You spend all your time looking up assfucking and pretending you’re not into men.”

Well, _that’s_ just hyper-specific in a way that… totally terrifies him. No big deal. Stumbling over his words, a wrung out, antsy kind of chuckle leaves his throat and Dorothea’s laughing something innocent and dry into the receiver.

“Wait, is that it? Was I right? You just like to pretend you’re plugging up some guy’s hole instead?”

“N-no—”

“Or maybe your greatest fantasy is being fucked yourself.”

Man, he really wishes he wasn’t stroking himself right now. It happened on accident, he swears it, but now he’s really curling his toes and finding the embarrassment almost too much to bear. His thumb flicks and rubs around the head with a stunning precision and he’s puffing into his shoulder away from the phone.

But still, he’s not the most silent masturbator.

“You’re getting off on this, aren’t you?” Dorothea asks, her voice thin with impatience.

“Yeah,” Sylvain confesses with ease. “Yeah, I am.”

She sighs audibly, crackling the call. “Then I’ll let you in on a little secret.”

“I don’t want you to try and help me,” he whispers, already ahead of her. “I just want you to help me climax, that’s all I’m paying you to do.”

“Well, as it turns out, I don’t care about what I’m paid to do, so unless you hang up you’re going to listen.”

Wincing, Sylvain pries his hand off of himself. He’s gone this long without blasting off, a few more minutes of edging won’t kill him. He closes his eyes and breathes in heavy, trying to ignore the twitch and ache of his cock. He’s almost unsettled at how much that did for him in such a short time.

He wants to feel worse about it but plenty of men call this woman. Plenty of men even more unfuckable do this calling business and they’re even nastier about it. Really, he’s probably the best call she could’ve hoped for.

She says as much when she says, “I do this job to pay the bills, so it’s not like I do this because I’m attracted to men or anything.”

“What, are you…? Like—”

“What, into girls? I fancy them, they’re gorgeous and perfect. Still not sure about men. The jury is still out on that one. Point being, when I see someone else, some other guy that’s struggling with coming to terms with himself, I don’t have the tolerance or the conscience to help him get off without telling him how to handle it.”

Sylvain rolls his eyes, voice coming a tad brusque when he says, “that’s real kind of you, but I’m not gay.”

“You are,” she asserts and Sylvain can’t even find the energy to repeat himself. “Try calling the number I’m about to give you and see if it doesn’t straighten you out. Or… do the opposite, I suppose.”

Dorothea’s giggling over her own joke and he can just hear the pink in her tone. It’s just cute enough to let him listen a bit longer. Grumbling to himself and clicking open a notepad document on his computer, he rocks to and fro in his seat and says, “sure, what’s the number?”

… 

The dial tone is ringing and Sylvain has no idea why he’s doing this or who he’s being connected to. He’d let Dorothea talk him into this and now he’s going to be face to face with an actual gay man. Or well, not face to face but… ear to ear, maybe.

There wasn’t proof that the guy on the other line was gay, though. Plenty of straight men probably did this just as a job. Gay for pay was definitely a thing because Sylvain had looked into it at one point. When you’re strapped for cash and your family’s considering cutting you off for the summer to force you into finding work, you’ll consider just about anything to avoid a McDonalds.

He’s got a cold, wet rag draped over the head of his softening dick. It soothes the trauma he’s been putting it through all night. His eyes glimpse over at the clock in the corner of his computer screen to find that it’s 3:57 am.

Maybe, quitting wouldn’t be so bad.

“Your name,” says a voice.

Sylvain’s back straightens up. _He answered._

“Um—”

“If you aren’t ready to go, call back later.”

“Sylvain! My name’s—c-call me Sylvain.”

A pause takes hold, and then, “you really just told me your real name, didn’t you?”

Was he… not supposed to?

Sylvain’s unaware that he says this out loud, because the man on the other line is snickering something evil and malignant when he says, “what makes you think I’d respect you enough to call you by name? You’re _swine_ tonight.”

And Sylvain swallows the golf ball sized rock in his throat. “Yes, sir. What… what do I call _you_?”

“Are you stupid?” the man strikes back with and Sylvain truly thinks to himself, _yes_, _yes I am._ “It’s sir and it’s master, and that’s _if_ I let you speak, have I made myself clear?”

Teeth chattering, Sylvain nods quietly as if afraid of being dick slapped at that very moment. It’s a powerful immersion he’s been put under quite immediately.

“You can answer this one,” he says flatly.

“Oh, yeah. You have.”

“Good. The only words you are permitted to say are the colors green, yellow, and red. I shouldn’t have to explain what these mean, right?”

Sylvain laughs. “That’s how fast I wanna go, right?”

“No, dickhead. It’s how _hard_ you want to go. If you tell me green, I’m going to assume you’re all fine. If you start to feel overwhelmed or like you need to take it a bit slower, you tell me yellow. Red is reserved for if you need to stop the whole thing, no questions asked. There’s never any questions asked.”

Huh, Sylvain thinks to himself. That’s… surprisingly healthy and safe. Not what he was expecting for some reason. It’s amazing how even delivering these simple little instructions, his master’s voice hasn’t waned in the slightest. Even with the power in his hands to stop this at any time, he’s still shivering in his seat at the idea of being taken beyond his limits.

There’s just one thing wrong here: he has no idea how to start.

“Capisce?”

Sliding his hands over the rag across his groin, Sylvain gets himself settled in with one leg upraised against the computer desk and exhales into the receiver.

“Yeah, I’m ready.”

“Is that how you talk to your master?” the other man jeers in a clipped tone.

“I mean, uh… yes, sir.”

“_Yes_, _master_.”

Sylvain clears his throat. “Yes, my master.”

“Say, _yes_, my master, even though I’m not deserving of your love or your touch.”

Ouch, that cuts a bit deep on his first time here.

“Yes, my master, even though I’m not deserving of your love… or your touch.”

“There we go,” he says, voice velvety across the earpiece and into Sylvain’s cerebrum. “Now, before I lose my fucking patience, tell me what you want me to do to you.”

God, if Sylvain didn’t know any better, he’d say this guy is phenomenally good at getting into character. He really can’t find a hint of pleasure in his voice. He sounds utterly drowned in disdain just talking to him.

Might as well continue where things left off with Dorothea (which, he’s now questioning if that is her real name, probably not.)

“I want to fuck… someone in the ass.”

“Someone?” the voice replies. “Who the fuck is ‘someone’?”

Sylvain can’t say it. He can’t say that to another dude. He’ll fucking die.

“You? I guess,” is the best he can manage.

“Sounding that pathetic, do you think anyone would let you put your dick in them? You sound spineless and useless.”

_Fuck_, this actually hurts to listen to. Maybe this level of humiliation isn’t quite what Sylvain needs. It feels good when he’s also getting touched but without the stimulation, simply getting talked down to like a dumb dog isn’t getting him anywhere.

What had actually done it for him before was… when Dorothea told him that he was gay.

The realization dawns on him that it’s probably not the fact that he’s being humiliated so much as it’s the fact that he’s… 

“Is that all you have to say to me?” his master sneers.

“S-sorry, I think… uh,” he laughs weakly. “I think I know what I want.”

“Considering I want to hang up the fucking phone, that makes two of us, so spit it out.”

Breathing in steady, he tells himself he can do this. So what if he lets himself open up to some stranger. He’s never going to see them again. There are a million people in the country all over the place. The chances of this guy even remembering him by his actual government name are slim.

He likely isn’t the first guy to do this. Phone sex guys probably get men coming out to them all the time, or claiming up and down that they aren’t gay but need the service anyways. It’s… probably startlingly common.

Squeezing his fingers around the base of his dick, Sylvain says gingerly, “I’ve never been with a man before. I thought that I liked being teased over it but I think I just…”

The silence deafens him. Why won’t he finish the sentence so Sylvain doesn’t have to? Biting into his cheek, rattling his knee anxiously up against his desk, Sylvain sighs out with a shake.

“I just want to try it once.”

The sound of lips licking, smacking together come clapping across the earpiece and his master answers with, “got it, well, that’s not within my paygrade.”

“W-wait, what?” Sylvain sweats.

“I make myself very clear when I say that I’m a no-touch service. I instruct you in your own masturbatory pursuits and I’ll step all over your shitty dick but you’re not fucking me and we’re not going to pretend that you are.”

Oh, this again. Okay, Sylvain will own up to the fact that he hadn’t read Dorothea’s page thoroughly but in his defense, this time he wasn’t even given a page!

“Hey, I just dialed the number that some other chick gave me. I don’t even know your name or what you look like.”

Not like he had a clue what Dorothea looked like.

Voice dipping out of what Sylvain can only refer to as ‘domspace’ and into something traditional, human and personable in its anger, his master says, “_what_? Who gave you my number?”

“Some girl named Dorothea? I had called _her_ in the first place—”

A growl interrupts Sylvain’s train of thought and at first he thought it was the displeasure of his Jack Russell Terrier in the kitchen but he comes to find it’s the man on the other line, seething in rage. Guess Dorothea did an _oopsie_.

“_Fine_.”

Sylvain tosses his wet rag onto his desk. “Come again?”

“I said _fine_. If you want to find out what it’s like to be with a man so bad, we’ll do it.”

Whoa, guess he owed the woman a favor or something. Nevertheless, the color of his voice has shifted into something rancorous, _dangerous_ almost and Sylvain likes the sound of it. He jiggles side to side in his seat and says, “you gonna take control?”

“Like _you_ could, you fucking virgin.”

And Sylvain’s not a virgin but for all intents and purposes, as a man who’s never been with another man, he’ll take the L.

“I’ll have to lube myself up entirely without your help. You wouldn’t know what to do, how to stretch my walls open to accommodate for your tiny, worthless cock. I’ve gotta stick my own fingers inside of me.”

He sighs a full breath into the receiver, and Sylvain has to wonder if the man on the other line is really doing everything he says he is or is just playing up the fantasy. If so, he’s doing one hell of a job. Sylvain can hear the click and squirt of a bottle being opened and splat into someone’s fingers, and the way the man pants into the receiver has him hoping to god this is the real thing.

Would that be too selfish, to wish it were the real thing?

“You’d better watch, so you can learn how to do this instead of being such a stupid, lazy fuck.”

“Y-yeah, I’m watching,” he says, eyes closed, envisioning the perfect scene.

The man’s down on all fours, sharp warm eyes glinting over his shoulder as he levels a pair of fingers into himself, wriggling and stretching and preparing himself. Sylvain pictures a little set of dimples in his lower back and a wiggle in his cheeks as he fucks himself onto his digits.

“Good,” the other man said with a snit. “You’re making me do this, so you’d better pay attention. All this just so you can find out you really like fucking slutty boys in their dirty holes.”

Sniffing in a harsh breath, Sylvain holds it there as he strokes himself.

“Is that right?” he says.

“Oh, of course it is. That’s why she told you to call me.”

“Is that ‘cause you’re a slutty boy?” he says with a smile. “A slutty boy with a dirty hole?”

Like he’s gotten caught in his own trap, the other man shudders out a gasp that sounds like pain, and pleasure, and a _deep_ shame before he says, “for you, I am.”

Somehow that was the best response Sylvain could’ve heard. He slides his palm kindly over the skin of his dick and tilts his head back as far as it will go.

“Let me fuck you, then.”

“You’re so fucking impatient,” says the sex worker, his cadence overwrought with exasperation. “I’m not letting you do what you want. I’m climbing on top and taking what I want from your body.”

In Sylvain’s mind’s eye, a slender body, built but slim crawls over the expanse of his body and nails him into the bed. His juicy, lubed up hole fits like a glove over his cock and he slams himself down like there has never been room for space between them, not then and not now.

“_Ah_—I’m taking you inside of me, so so deep inside of me, _fuck_.”

Man, dirty talk was always Sylvain’s favorite part of sex which makes phone sex the actual best practice known to man. No one can touch him better than he can touch himself, but surely what other people can do better than him is talk into his ear. No amount of imagined dialogue can compare to the real thing.

There’s something so addictive about hearing a male voice groaning back at him, at imagining the bounce of his cock against his stomach as he rocks himself up and down upon Sylvain’s hips. It’s so hot. It’s _so_ hot.

God, he wants to fuck men. He wants to fuck _this_ man.

“Fuck, _fuck_, your cock feels so good. It’s wasted on trash like you.”

Sylvain jitters in his seat, his balls clenching and stomach twisting.

“I think—_oh god_.”

“Don’t. Don’t tell me you’re going to come already in my tight little asshole. Did I say you could—”

Oh, he’s whispering apologies to a man he’s not really in bed with as he crescendos, spilling his seed all over his hand and the corner of his desk. It feels like a fountain. It erupts out of him with so much more force than he was expecting, having forgotten that he essentially edged himself on accident for about four hours. It’s nigh embarrassing how quickly he’d come.

His phone collapses from his hand and ear, flopping into the shag carpeting of his floor. Sylvain thinks he can hear the frustrated yelping from the sex worker on the other line but he can’t bring himself to move an inch apart from the twitching he’s doing up into his hand. There’s nothing left for him to give.

Honestly, he’d fall asleep all crooked and curled up halfway against his desk if he could, daydreaming about the dark haired man with the cutting copper eyes.

There’s an incorrigible image imprinted on the back of his eyelids now of a little dark haired minx of a man, taking his cock better than any woman ever could.

That’s probably not what he really looks like though, and what’s worse is that he’ll never see this man ever again.

Never.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> am i more or less awful for saying the idea came to me while listening to personal jesus on the subway


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for a censored F slur at one point, the male dom phone sex worker uses it to comment on how homophobic jerks use the service.
> 
> that being said... sighs and updates the chapter count.
> 
> _edit_: thank you so much for the kind comments! im sorry if i dont reply to all of them but i do read them all

So actually, it’s twenty-one hours before Sylvain dials him again. It’s predictable but he’s gotten himself a cozier spot on the bed to whack off in than last time. His leg developed a thin red line from where the side of the desk had pressed against it by the end of last night’s session. He’s also prepared this time. Sylvain hasn’t touched himself all day, in fact. It’s something like a drug that needs to be administered at just the right time for it to take full effect.

Or at least for it to be the funnest. He likens it to people who get hallucinogens and wait to try it until they’ve gotten a copy of Disney’s Alice in Wonderland cartoon ready to go.

Sylvain’s set the lotion and rag to the side of his bed. Now all he needs is his Alice.

Hitting the re-dial and breathing in calm and cool, he seems blissfully unaware of how their call ended last time. The memories all blended together in his head until all he could recall was seeing galaxies behind his eyes, with a sprinkling of remembering how to get all the stains out of his desk.

That’s kinda gross but he’s not too fussed about it.

“Name and kink,” answers his master and Sylvain has such a physiological reaction to just his voice that it curls his toes.

“It’s me, Sylvain from last night.”

The other man pauses and then, “did you not hear the fucking prompt, pig?”

“O-oh, right,” says Sylvain with a cough, grinning at the ceiling. “Sylvain, uh…”

What _is_ his kink? Is feigning homosexuality a kink? It has to be since he isn’t actually gay.

That feels offensive to say, though, so he settles on, “domination.”

“You,” his master speaks with ire. “You cut the call off last time. What makes you worth my time if you’re simply going to come and go as you please?”

Settling some into his supine position on the bed, Sylvain nestle his neck into the pillows and says, “you were just too good at your job.”

“_You_ were just an insatiable, greedy fuck. You’re an animal. Animals don’t speak in full sentences. Explain to me in five words or less why I should even talk to you.”

“I—”

Cutting himself off, Sylvain wraps his teeth in his lips and closes his eyes. What the hell did this guy have in store for him tonight? If Sylvain wasn’t mistaken, he’d think that this man was genuinely peeved with him for having bounced from the call entirely too early. Surely this must be just a job for him, so that couldn’t be the case.

It must just be a part of the role-play, to give it something of a narrative and a continuous flow with your customers. Sylvain figures that must be it.

“Four words now,” bites the other man.

Fuck, he’s already wasted one. Voice vacant, somewhat disembodied in its execution, he utters, “need your touch, please.”

“You don’t know how to follow instructions,” says the master. “I said, _animals don’t speak in full sentences_. Don’t act like you’re on the same level as I am. You are beneath me.”

Sylvain gulps down a chuckle and says as seriously as he can manage, “do you want me to talk like a caveman?”

“You’re about as charming as a neanderthal, so that would be fitting.”

“Wow, didn’t think your kink was weird underdeveloped baby talk.”

That’s the same, isn’t it? Sylvain imagines trying to appease this dom with language like, _‘hole, please,’ ‘me suck your dick,’_ and he wants to roll off of the bed entirely. It sounds so fucking funny to him but from the way that the line has gone dead on the other side, his master doesn’t think it’s altogether that funny.

In fact, if Sylvain didn’t know any better, he’d think that he’d been hung up on. Just as he pulls the phone from his ear to glance at the call, he barely hears, “…nk you’re funny?”

“Come again?” echoes Sylvain.

“Do you think you’re _cute_ or funny? You call people to soothe your ego, to make your cock feel good because the only people that’ll get in bed with you are the people that don’t have to look at your ugly mug—people that can’t turn around and tell everyone that you love fucking men in their whore assholes. Do you think _I’m_ the weird one here?”

Bending one of his knees up, ignoring how swiftly his hand has started groping through his boxers, Sylvain winces with a, “you sound pissed,” and kind of likes it.

“Pissed? No, I’m amused by the level of faux confidence you have to call someone like me only to joke around and jeer as if you aren’t dying for someone’s touch, for someone to love you, for someone to touch your rotten dick.”

Sylvain wraps his fingers around the head, holding tight. “_Mhm_.”

“You don’t even want positive attention, just attention. It’s why you don’t mind being laughed at or being scorned, _isn’t that right_? I don’t even need to do much but call you a swine and step on your pointless cock.”

It’s a fact that Sylvain’s never considered stepping before but his eyes blow wide at the idea of his master crushing hard between his thighs with a big, black boot. That might just be a new one for him. His hand slides his cock from out of his boxer briefs and he sighs out in ecstasy. This might not be a bad one, either.

“That’s good…”

“Of course it is,” seethes the other man. “You don’t care if anyone else gets off, if anyone else takes the time out of their day to finger themselves open for you. You can subsist on your own shit and salt alone.”

Taking a deep inhale, Sylvain has to wonder if he were… actually bothered by last night, or not. The wondering happens for just a few seconds before he’s bucking up into his hand. His master’s saying, “you’re just a dirty animal,” and Sylvain has to agree.

Suddenly, his voice is whispered and it slips into the deepest part of Sylvain’s mind. “You’re going to come to this, aren’t you?”

Oh, Sylvain’s shaking his head and he hates it because it hasn’t been long at all. This is addictive and awful and far too powerful. The bed squeaks beneath him as he shifts.

“Yeah.”

“_Beg to come_,” he says and Sylvain rolls his eyes but complies.

“Please, lemme—”

“More.”

Sylvain sweats, the head of his cock aching with sensitivity, like a single brush of someone else’s hand would be enough to tilt him over. His blood surges through it and it twitches with need.

“_Please_, my dick is—”

“I don’t care about your dick. Address me properly or I’ll never touch you again.”

And for some reason, Sylvain stills his hand—actually comes to a stop.

“Master, please… wanna come, so bad.”

_Does that sound enough like an animal to you?_

“Come then, you beast, since you’re so impatient and base.”

The statement hardly finishes itself before Sylvain’s tipping across the edge, his essence splattering across his stomach and stretching up to his chest. His head narrowly misses banging straight into the headboard.

_God_, he came hard. And messy. Might be his best yet.

Not a sound can be heard from the other side of the line. Sylvain’s breathing permeates the silence but does not remedy it. For being so vocal and nasty, his master’s gone remarkably quiet. Licking his lips and finding that they’ve gone quite dry, Sylvain reaches aimlessly for the bottle of water on his bedside table. He wipes himself down, wringing the last droplets of cum from his dick into the rag as he regathers himself.

Odd of the other guy to be so quiet.

“Thanks,” Sylvain says, feeling… different.

“Whatever.”

… 

“So, what’s with all the ‘animal’ stuff? That a popular thing?” Sylvain’s dying to know.

“Sort of. It’s kind of my brand of domination. Every dom has their quirks, their things that separate them and make their experience unique. It’s how I’ve established myself.”

When conversing like a regular human being, Sylvain can’t help but think his master’s voice sounds so smooth. Sylvain could wrap himself up in his cadence alone.

Turning onto his side and tugging his dick back behind his boxers, Sylvain’s got one hand under the pillow beneath his head and the other holding the phone fast to his ear. He’s curled up with a smile like he’s talking to an old high school crush. In some ways, it’s better than that. No one from his old high school would be as cool as this. Maybe Sylvain’s just fucking weird, but having a job like this just brands you a badass. No one can tell you shit. You get paid to not take anyone’s shit. In fact, they _pay_ you to fuck them up. How great is that?

“Aw, so you really _do_ talk to everyone like that,” flirts Sylvain.

“Are you an idiot? Of course I do.” And, like _phew_ it flies over his head. “I got started like this actually because it’s what one of my earliest clients wanted.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, he… was a neat one, though. I think he was going through some stuff and instead of wanting someone to fix it, decided this was the best route to pursue.”

Sylvain grimaces. “That doesn’t sound good.”

“Yeah, he got me started on the whole… calling people animals thing. Liked being called a rat, or a boar.”

Smiling wide, Sylvain asks, “what am I?”

“A sow,” he taunts.

“Ouch,” laughs Sylvain.

“He hasn’t called me in a year or two, though, so I’m guessing he’s doing better.”

“Do you actually care to keep up with your clients?” says Sylvain.

“Not in the slightest,” he jeers. “But money’s money. I can’t afford to lose clientele.”

Somehow, Sylvain doesn’t believe that answer. He has the mind not to mention it, though. Maybe it’s because when he yawns, the man on the other line is clicking his tongue, scowling terribly audibly and muttering, “you know, you’re wasting your money at this point.”

“Pffbt, not if the conversation’s good.”

“It’s not.”

“Hey, don’t other people call sometimes just to have someone to talk to?”

“No.”

“That’s a lie.”

“Not unless it’s about how they’re cheating on their wife with a man, or how they hate f-gs but can’t turn down a little blond twink, or rambling about how they’re considering suicide because they can’t handle being gay.”

Whoa, Sylvain wasn’t expecting all that. He cringes and wishes almost that he hadn’t brought any of that up. He could tell him how he’s doing his best in a job that in hindsight… actually isn’t that cool and kinda sucks. Instead he says something like, “_are_ you a little blond twink?”

And his master cackles. “Not hardly.”

“What are you?”

“I’m whatever these fuckshit customers want me to be. That’s the beauty of this job—it’s that I’m only a voice. I could be browsing YouTube while telling you how long to keep your balls tied up, and I could have brown hair while telling you it’s really long and red.”

Curiously, “and what do you look like, _really_?”

“Really?” He pauses and Sylvain thinks it’s because he’s about to cuss him out, when instead his voice dips soft and low like the unraveling of a mystery. “Quite boring, actually.”

“What’s boring?” pries Sylvain.

“Black hair, wavy and I hate it,” he says sotto voce.

“That sounds hot to me,” Sylvain replies.

“You’ll never actually know, so who cares.”

The conversation doesn’t last for a whole lot longer before his master puts an end to the call. Maybe Sylvain went and made it weird. He’s historically had a great track record for that: making shit weird. Plus, who cares if Sylvain’s blowing his family funds away? Surely, any good phone sex worker worth any salt would take advantage of that kind of shit.

But he didn’t. Strange.

Still, it’s hardly the crack of dawn yet and lord knows that’s when he finally lulls himself to sleep on low-fi hip-hop jams, so until then he’s got time to kill. That’s when it occurs to him that he never thanked that woman for her time last night. She’s the one who set this ball in motion.

He’s upright and nuking some hot dogs in the microwave with his balls out when Dorothea picks up the phone, voice fluffy as whipped cream when she says, “who is it?”

Dorothea’s tone is a mixture of some polite neighborly woman commingled with a college stripper (y’know, the ones that are _only_ doing it to get into college.) He’s half expecting her to arrive at his door with a housewarming gift of homemade gelatin before sucking his dick.

That’s what she sounds like, and it’s incredible to behold.

“Dorothea! It’s me, Sylvain. The guy who called yesterday night? Or… morning? Late night slash early morning—”

“Oh nooooo, it’s you again.”

“Eh, yeah?”

“Oh _nooooo_,” she cries and Sylvain chuckles into the receiver.

“No! I’m not here to get your services, I just wanted to thank you.”

“Huh,” she clucks, the noise coming out almost like a hiccup. “I suppose you can do that. That’s probably the nicest thing you’ve ever done for a woman is pay to thank her for her labor.”

“No problem!” Sylvain doesn’t absorb the statement whatsoever. “He’s pretty fun and worth the money.”

“That’s… two words for him, for sure,” Dorothea posits.

“What can I do to repay you for the recommendation?”

The tone that Sylvain takes utterly betrays the atmosphere and mood of _paying for sex_. It sounds as though Dorothea had given him directions to a fancy new mediterranean fusion restaurant and not the number to a male sex hotline. In proper fashion, she guffaws at the question and answers, “_nothing at all_!?”

“What, I’m serious! You really helped me out there.”

“You don’t sound like I helped you realize that you’re gay or anything. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you sound like you’ve just found a new outlet to act out your fantasies in between fits of repressing it.”

And in a brilliant moment of self-awareness, Sylvain slaps his thigh and bends his knees, glancing at his hot dogs popping open in the microwave.

“You know me too well, already.”

“_Boy_, _you’re irresponsible_.”

“Tell me something—_ow_!” Sylvain licks his finger, nursing a burn after attempting to grab the plate from the microwave. “Tell me something I _don’t_ already know.”

Maybe she can overhear the clack of the microwave door shutting, or the subtle clatter of the plate being set down on the counter, or any other noises that alert her to the munching of a late night college student eating cheap as fuck meals.

Because then she says, “you’re wasting your life pretending this isn’t serious while you eat microwaveable ramen in your Fruit of the Loom’s.”

“Hey,” he mutters around a mouthful of plain meat. “Calm down, ‘s’not a big deal.”

Even as he says this, the suspension in conversation brings the problem to the forefront of his mind and he’s compelled to continue arguing in his favor.

It’s _not_ a big deal. It’s fine if he jacks his dick to men. He’s been in love with women his whole life. That’s not about to change just because he’s found that he’s got a special kind of kink.

That’s all that this is. Maybe it’s even a phase. That’d make the most sense. Sylvain chews his hot dog indignantly, certain that even in his childhood he was never a gay kid. He wasn’t even sad or hurt, or even crushed when Miklan cut all the hair off his Barbie dolls and tossed his Skydancers into the firepit out back.

Sylvain was mostly just… disappointed.

“I think it is,” Dorothea says, cutting through the cloud, “and I don’t think for a second that you don’t _know_ it is.”

She sounds matter-of-fact but not proud of it. Then she says, humble and coy, “do you have any plans tomorrow night?”

“Not a one,” brags Sylvain in self-deprecation. “Want me to call you?”

She can probably hear the wink in his voice. No, she doesn’t. Instead she says, “want to meet me for dinner?” and she can also probably hear the noise he makes spitting hot dog into the tile.

Sylvain sputters and says, “for real?”

“If you’ve got better table manners than that, then yes.”

He’s wiping his mouth and sauntering back to his room toward his computer desk, preparing in advance for the address she’s bound to give him. That’s when he notices… “Hey, but you don’t even know where I live.”

“We’ve got a caller profile for frequent customers, so I know who you are. I _am_ given an area code.”

“Oh,” he says. “So… we share the same one?”

“Just… jot this place down,” she sighs out easy and Sylvain is tickled pink to do so.

_‘Not into men’ my ass_.

…

It’s called the Funky Fungi and by that name you’d never believe that it’s a… pizza chain but Sylvain supposes it’s a play on words because mushrooms are fungi and mushrooms can be put on pizza and…

He realizes he suddenly doesn’t care. He’s on a real life date for the first time in months and he’s _determined_ to not fuck this up. Sylvain gets into his car looking very studio booth casual with a suit-jacket and a t-shirt on underneath that reads “I Got A Dig Bick (you read that sentence wrong)” because he hasn’t gotten the memo telling him to burn the shirt and himself at the stake yet.

If nothing else, his car is nice. It’s the Volkswagon his brother calls him gay for driving. It’s cute. It’s a hot crimson color and it comes speeding a hundred miles down Dorothea’s driveway before skidding to a halt, just barely missing the pink frangipanis out front.

Dorothea has long brown hair, voluminous and wavy. Those curls surely can’t be natural but they look it, so perfectly twine around itself and splayed across her bosom—of which she is _assuredly_ blessed.

Hot fucking damn.

Her eyes are like jade. She steps out in a black suspended skirt and Sylvain can’t figure out whether to keep his eyes on her rack or legs.

Legs. Legs are always the less horny option, even if women aren’t privy to the fact that his first thoughts involve sticking his cock in between them. Nothing wrong with a good intercrural.

She drops down into the passenger’s seat, voice coming sweet and honeyed as she says, “what the fuck?”

“What?”

“You’re _an hour_ late.”

Oh. Guess while he was busy sizing her up, he didn't notice the way she bounced angrily to the car, or the way her fingers wrenched themselves around those boisterous curls of hers.

Winking an eye, Sylvain fans a set of unapologetic eyelashes across his cheekbone.

“I prefer to think of it as _making you wait for it_.”

“Uh, yeah. You made me wait. Wow! Can’t believe you’re trying to make it smooth and romantic, haha. Just drive to the place.”

_Fucked it up already_.

But no fear, because Sylvain Jose Gautier is no quitter and if nothing else he can impress her with his rad driving skills.

By the time they’re both at the restaurant, Dorothea’s shivering in her heels and looking significantly paler.

“You look like you need to get some food in you,” jokes Sylvain, opening the door for her all gentlemanlike.

Dorothea makes a queasy smile. “Probably just the appetizer.”

By the neon sign leading them both into the restaurant, the establishment seems _hip_ and _happening_. With a litter of art installations on the walls, photos and graffiti, various other glowing signs that beg and fight for Sylvain’s ADHD-addled attention, the Funky Fungi is the place to be.

The wood flooring does a dip as he steps across it—a dip and a squeak and suddenly he questions the integrity of every floorboard in the building. Really, the more he squints, the more the atmosphere feels like some high schooler’s basement pizza party. The host herself looks something troubled and underage, big bushy violet hair that smears her vision with a set of pipes Sylvain couldn’t possibly hear over the dulcet tones of The All-American Rejects 2008 hit ‘_Gives You Hell_.’

Okay, yeah, Sylvain’s opinion of this place dropped from ‘funky, cool, millennial,’ to ‘only teenagers eat here.’

Teenagers that listen to… what _he_ listened to as a teenager.

“T… Ta… Table for t-two?” she squeaks inaudibly.

“Two, yes,” Dorothea answers and Sylvain’s mumbling the lyrics all the way to the booth.

Sat across from each other, Sylvain’s presented with the menu but more importantly, his first face-to-face position with Dorothea. Up until then, Dorothea had done a spectacular job of always standing side-by-side or in front of him, sparing him no glances. Now that they’re forced to look each other in the eye, she’s tucking hair behind her hair anxiously and flipping through the menu feverishly. Is she… _afraid_ of him? Is his aura too strong to behold?

Smiling warmly, Sylvain reaches a hand across the table to play at fitting itself over hers and she flinches it backward seemingly on instinct.

“Hey, there’s no need to be antsy. I’m a nice guy to get on with, promise,” he says, y’know, like a guy that’s terrible as fuck to talk to.

It’s like he does it on purpose or something.

Folding her menu up in something like defeat, she props her elbows on the table in a most unladylike display and says with a simper, “the only thing I need you to promise is that you’ll foot the bill.”

“That’s what I was assuming.”

“Oh,” Dorothea huffs. “I forgot for a second—wealth you have done nothing to earn, _duh_.”

“Uh…?”

Sylvain winces inwardly, flicking his finger through the menu. So many girls in the past had pursued him for his money alone. It’s unusual to be presented with one who’s somewhat… disgusted with it, as though his status brands him a dickhead all on its own.

It surely gives him tunnel vision at times, but he’d like to think he’d possess that, money or no money.

Faking his smile in return, Sylvain prods at the pie he’s been eyeing the most. It’s got _shrimp_ on it for fuck’s sake.

“What’re you in the mood for? I’ve got a hankering for the… ‘Shrimpteresting Pie,’ maybe with some pesto bread or pesto on the side.”

“I want the pesto bread appetizer as my whole meal,” Dorothea says and Sylvain nods profusely.

“Can do! _Will_ do!”

Out of the corner of Sylvain’s eye, the waiter approaches.

“Hi, welcome to the Funky Fungi. I’ll be your waiter for tonight, my name—oh, what are _you_ doing here?”

Dorothea lights up with a gentle laugh, jostling in her seat as the waiter seems to scorn her for attendance.

“I’m here with a friend to get some pesto! And maybe he’ll have some pizza.”

“Yeah fuckin’ right. All you ever do is eat us out of pesto every night. Leave a handsome tip why don’t you.”

Some mouth he’s got on him, Sylvain notes. Dorothea’s pointing at him now.

“He’s gonna leave you such a generous tip. He’s a tough customer. You’d have to be a masochist to wanna wait on this guy, period.”

Sylvain’s snickering some. He can be the butt of a joke or two. No skin off his nose.

“Are you a masochist tonight, my man?”

Looking up at the waiter with the zombied look in his eyes, his unruly hair bundled back into a messy, sweaty bun, Sylvain can’t help but find him… deathly fetching. The bags under his eyes are so cute. Sylvain wants to put him in a bathtub and feed him soup or something, he looks so worn out. The only thing sexier about him is the bite in his teeth when he says, “for you, I am.”

It’s said with such sarcasm, snapped between his incisors and yet…

His heart rate spikes. Sylvain’s eyes go wide.

“Huh…”

Dorothea’s slapping Sylvain’s arm. “This is Felix, he’s a friend of mine.”

Felix is slapping his notepad against the corner of his elbow with a barbed sort of stare. His arms are crossed.

“What drinks can I get you guys started off with?”

Sylvain can hardly breathe. “Water.”

“I’ll have a coke!” chirps Dorothea.

“Do you like your water with a lemon slice?” Felix asks him and Sylvain’s leg is stimming hard under the table.

“Sure, yeah,” he says.

“Oh, we also know what appetizer we want!”

“Idiot, I already know it, you ask for it every single time. I’m not stupid.”

“You’re not good at customer service, Fefe. You’ve gotta ask what _Sylvain_ wants for an appetizer?”

Eyes locking onto one another’s like laser guided missiles, like magnetically attracted, Felix’s stare goes acerbic, _flinty_.

Low and chilly, “what appetizer?”

Sylvain chuckles in a breath. “I—I need the bathroom.”

“Head back to the register, take a right, it’s the first door on the left,” rushes Felix.

“_Thankyousomuch_.”

They depart. The words all flood their bodies faster than they can shove them out. Felix’s body, the rickety, robotic thing it is twists on his heels, marching back into the kitchen with a lean in his step. Sylvain _darts_. He’s in the men’s bathroom shuddering and shoving water into his face from the cold tap of the Funky Fungi within seconds.

That’s him.

That’s extension *95.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dont... look at the chapter number its not important.

Oh, this would be so much more manageable if Sylvain’s dick wasn’t harder than the California Bar Exam. He _really_ would have a better time handling the fact that he’d just met face to face with the man who had been getting him off for two nights in a row now if he wasn’t stiffer in the pants than a peg-leg in skinny jeans.

Everything about him from his Siberian stare to his jaw, drawn and quartered, like a wolf itching to fight: it was all exactly as Sylvian had pictured in his wildest dreams.

And here he starred in his worst nightmare.

_I can’t go out there. What the fuck was Dorothea thinking bringing me to his… fucking day job. What the fuck._

The choruses of ‘what the hell,’ ‘what the fuck’ continued on in his cerebrum until he felt fit to burst. Nothing was going to get accomplished sitting in a Funky Fungi bathroom stall. There were only three stalls in the first place and the other two were occupied and smelt right _rank_. By all accounts, he should get the hell out of there but there’s only one thing more terrifying to Sylvain than unclean spaces: someone seeing him for who he really is.

As it turns out, that’s also something he’d die to have happen. Just maybe, not like this.

_Okay, I can do this. When I get out there I’ll just lie and say I forgot my wallet._

Standing up from the toilet, Sylvain plucks his pants up from his shins and fingers his pocket for his wallet. Shit, and he _actually_ brought it. Time to eat it or something, put it in his shoe, _fuck_—shove it up his ass. Doesn’t matter. He’d toss it into his boxers if he wasn’t afraid of getting precum stains all over the pleather exterior, or making his already painfully visible erection look rectangular and absurd.

If he can’t hide his dick, he can at least make it look well shaped.

There’s clearly an easy fix, just hide it. Just hide it inside the bathroom, tell her you gotta go, come back for it and leave. It’s fucking genius!

Shuffling out of the stall and kneeling down beside the sink, Sylvain makes a move to scoot the garbage can away from its corner nestled up against the wall and the sink counter. In the little gap he’s created, he slots his little black wallet. No one’s gonna look here for anything.

No one except for maybe the guy making eye contact with him from the urinals, shaking his dick out and slipping it back into his pants with a vacant stare. He’s got big, bushy black hair and a look that says he’ll break Sylvain in half for looking at his dick.

“I wasn’t looking at your dick,” he says, spontaneous.

The man speaks like a sloth—a dangerously close to snapping one.

“You weren’t,” he answers and Sylvain can’t be sure if it’s a question or a statement or…

God, he just needs to get the _fuck_ out of this bathroom. He’s been in here long enough. He raises up on his feet and leans his torso into the door, checking for Dorothea or his master if they’re outside the door—_Felix_, he has a name now and he’s not Sylvain’s master—

“You didn’t wash your hands,” says the taller man, his voice coming terse, less than accusatory but still dripping with condemnation.

Sylvain stills his body, glancing back at him. He’s something of a goth, but not in the ‘I listen to MCR’ way, more like the ‘I role-play that I’m a vampire’ way, and his eyes are bouncing to and fro from Sylvain’s palms to his guilty eyes.

“Uh…”

Fuck it, if the guy’s calling him out, might as well traipse back over to the sink and—

“Don’t bother washing them now, miscreant.”

“Okay, you know what? I have shit to do.” Sylvain exits the bathroom, finding that the temperature outside of the bathroom is a good five degrees higher. The aroma of spices and baked cheese waft through the air, mingling with the multitude of conversations taking place inside the establishment. Is it just him or is it ten times busier since he got here?

Coughing, he adjusts his dick in his pants (forgetting that he’s just stepped outside of the bathroom to do this), and struts with confidence back to the table. Fortune shines down on his worthless soul, making it to his seat to find that their dear waiter is nowhere to be found. Dorothea is sipping her coke through a straw, a smear of her lipstick fogging around the plastic. Before he can sag his buzzing body down into the seat, she’s looking up at him with an expectant smile.

It’s bleeding something Stepford and false but it’s not a frown and so Sylvain can lie to himself that she’s not fed-up with this date already. He’d rather cut it off before she’s genuinely pissed.

Slapping his sweaty palms into the pockets of his pants, showcasing their empty nature, he presses himself tight to the back of the chair to hide his _predicament_ and says, “I’m _so_ sorry, Dorothea, but we’re going to have to reschedule. I’ve… I forgot my wallet, can you believe it?”

“No,” she says. “Well, I can believe that you would but I don’t believe you did.”

“Yeah, well I did,” he says simply. “I’m gonna have to run. We didn’t get our food yet so we can just leave. You don’t have to worry about having to foot the bill. We can just do this another day—”

“Oh, I’m getting that pesto bread tonight, Sylvain. You can sit there all pretty and let me finish my appetizer, _then_ take me home.”

She smiles smugly.

“I…”

Oh. Yeah. He drove her here. Sylvain forgot he couldn’t just drive the hell off. She has no way of getting home, and she’s pulling some face at him like she knows, she just knows he has the brain of a flea right now. What’s worse is that she knows why.

_This is not funny._

“I think I’ll just… wait in the car,” he suggests.

“Why? It’s hot outside. You’re not gonna let the car run the whole time that I’m inside, are you?”

Grimacing, Sylvain thinks to himself, _no_, _I might just leave you here if I’m honest_.

It surely wouldn’t be his first time.

“I’m just gonna f—” The doors to the kitchen swing open to a waiter’s back shoving through it and Sylvain’s treated to the sight of a dangling, tangled bun of dark hair and a slick nape. His blouse is rolled up to his elbows and Sylvain can spot a tattoo on his left arm of a very detailed wolf bearing searing blue eyes.

He doesn’t have the time to admire him and his form, how he moves so easily, purposefully, like a real man’s man as he expertly balances a set of dinner plates that look ready to tip at any moment, a single vein in his arm dripping with sweat.

_Fuck, fuck, that’s Felix._

“Sylvain?” Dorothea laughs out his name, watching as Sylvain races from the table and his body disappears around the corner of the register once again, diving into the men’s room.

There’s just one singular problem: once he’s inside the bathroom, he finds that his little pleather wallet is missing. Sylvain wastes no time in yanking the garbage can up from the tile flooring, the stench from it halfway killing him as his eyes scan the flooring, finding no sign whatsoever of his rightful belongings.

“I was just in here, what the hell?”

Exiting the bathroom again, Sylvain keeps his eyes peeled for that Edgar Allen Poe looking motherfucker. The stress from all of this has done one good thing for him: he’s no longer pitching a visible tent and is instead panicking over possible identity theft.

Dorothea is happily feasting on a plate of pesto bread by the time Sylvain gets back. He supposes one of those plates Felix had been tasked with delivering earlier had been the appetizer. Licking the green sauce from her cleanly manicured nails, she pulls her fingers from her mouth with a seductive _pop!_

And Sylvain really wishes it did more for him sexually than a single glimpse at their waiter had done for him.

“My wallet’s missing, have you seen a—”

“Yeah, you told me already,” she says, unintrigued.

“I was lying, I’m _actually_ missing it now.”

“Wow, no shame at all, huh?” Dorothea’s eyes widen.

“I couldn’t care less,” Sylvain spits, his mouth a flat line and anything but charming. “I just need to get it back from the guy who stole it so I can get the hell out of here.”

Pouting, Dorothea tears a slice of pesto bread off of the plate and wiggles it between two of her fingers. Offering it like an olive branch of sorts, she laughs and says, “come on and forgive me already, just sit down and have some bread—_look_ I’m even offering you my bread.”

“Sweet thing, I don’t need your bread.”

“_Hey_, _invisible man_,” rings out a deep voice and Sylvain’s eyes gleam upward to spot him, the waiter on his way back to the table.

Was his voice always that decadent? Sylvain can’t remember. His spine goes erect and he prays the rest of him doesn’t follow suit. Guess he’s caught now.

“You gonna sit down and tell me your order, or not? I’ve been back and forth and can’t seem to pin you down.”

Pin him down, huh? That had to be on purpose. Sylvain’s biting his bottom lip on accident thinking that _had_ to be on purpose.

“I actually lost my wallet,” he says, wincing as Felix’s eyebrows angle, his eyes pinching into a squint, “so I won’t be ordering anything.”

“Are you a moron?”

“Afraid so,” confesses Sylvian, not a hint of contrition to be found in the act itself but in potentially disappointing Felix; he pretends not to know why he should care.

Tapping his notepad against his elbow, again, like something of a nervous tic, Felix is chewing on the side of his mouth in thought. Eyes still squinted, he says, “I actually think you’re in luck, some guy turned a wallet in not too long ago.”

Please, lord, Sylvain just needs a reason to _leave_.

“I—it’s probably not mine,” he blurts to both Dorothea and Felix’s surprise.

“Why the fuck wouldn’t it be?”

Yikes, guess he’s just as curt and crass in person as he is over the phone. Sylvain supposes the profession suits him naturally then. It’s almost hotter knowing that his bravado over the phone isn’t bravado at all. He’s the real deal.

Before Sylvain can answer, Felix is pointing his pen at him accusingly. “You’re trying to ditch again.”

Sylvain blinks. _Again?_

Cousin to self-congratulatory, something angry, competitive and altogether… _hot_ is emblazoned on Felix’s subtle features: the way his eyes go wide and his smirk spreads thin, his posture cocked and bold as though he’s moments from stomping his slip-resistant sneakers onto the table. He says, “you’re not going anywhere; you’re going to sit down, _shut up_, and finish your date,” and Sylvain nods.

His head shakes without warning and he sits down, only realizing he’s done so when the thought that he should catches up with his body. He swallows a newly formed rock in his throat.

“Yeah, alright.”

Felix frowns, face stony once more. “Call me again at one.”

_Oh_.

“I wouldn’t flirt with him if you value your health,” murmurs a man passing by behind Felix, having heard the back end of the conversation. “He doesn’t wash his hands.”

Face wrinkling up in disgust, Felix’s eyes glare daggers into the goth man’s back as he marches onward and Sylvain can scarcely regain his faculties enough to be offended or feel called out in any way.

Felix… wants him to call him again. This knowledge makes his guts tighten up and he wishes he knew how to handle it but with laughter and a hand wave.

Dorothea’s slurping cheese and grinning something stupid.

Sylvain thinks he must be beet red, but he still wants to go home. That thought permeates the rest of the evening.

…

In hindsight, Felix just wants more money, _duh_. There’s no other reason for him to want Sylvain to call him. His rates are a lot higher than Dorothea’s and in fact, they’re on the pricier end. Sylvain’s lucky his parents haven’t started questioning where all these late night charges are coming from but once they do, he knows that he’s going to have to kick this habit and quick.

The thought occurs to him that he could potentially end up having to find a real guy to get him off, something like a _boyfriend_ and he shivers at the notion.

_This is just a phase._

It’s an awfully enrapturing one if Sylvain can say so himself. Here he is, mildly stroking himself before Felix has even answered the line. The fantasies in Sylvain’s brain have been updated with an HD rendering of what his master looks like in the flesh. Shorter but… tougher looking, if he had to wager whether he’d come out on top in a fist fight. He looks like the type to fight dirty but Sylvain knows himself to be the same.

Recollecting the sight of his perfect little nape with stunning accuracy, Sylvain imagines what it’d feel like to leave pink marks and kisses all over it while fucking into him hard. Those gorgeous dimples, that wonderfully pear-shaped bod that would fit so snug in his hands…

“Name and kink,” greets Felix, same cadence as usual and Sylvain rotates his spine against the bed, wondering just where Felix is while he does it.

Felix had said it himself, he could be doing anything.

“Sylvain, back by popular demand,” he says with a click of the tongue and to his surprise Felix is sighing rather than cursing him out at the blatant disregard in his reply.

“You’re never going to answer properly so why the fuck do I bother.”

“It’s ‘cause you already know what I want,” says Sylvain a bit too smiley.

“I have no idea why you’d call a dom line if you want to make slick comments like that and play around not taking it seriously.”

Shrugging against the bed, keeping one hand to the phone at his ear while the other smooths leisurely up and down his cock, Sylvain says, “I never called you explicitly to be dominated, just to fuck a guy. Remember, Dorothea gave me your number with zero context.”

“Don’t fucking remind me,” he barks and Sylvain chuckles at his venom.

Really, she orchestrated this whole thing, that night and also this night. The embarrassment of it all still paralyzes him enough to drive his motions to a halt. A discomfort settles in his chest that he can’t name but luckily Felix takes hold of the conversation, muttering, “still can’t believe she brought you to my fucking day job.”

Giving an antsy mumble back, Sylvain sighs out, “me neither.”

“She’s trying to play match-maker,” Felix says and that sickness in Sylvain’s gut gets progressively worse.

He has to say it now or he doesn’t think that he’ll find the strength to ever: “I’m… I’m not _actually_ into guys, you know that, right?”

There’s a gap from the other side of the call and Sylvain thinks that maybe his phone’s went and died in the middle of such a crucial discussion. Instead he’s mortified to discover that Felix is laughing at him, actually _losing_ it at apparently the mere implication that Sylvain could be a heterosexual man.

Felix gathers himself up enough to say, “you’re getting there, don’t worry.”

“I’m not,” Sylvain reiterates. “This was an experiment and I’m glad I had the chance but… I don’t think this is for me, not for the long term at least.”

“Don’t think what is for you?”

“This. This… lifestyle.”

He doesn’t even know what he means, but thankfully Felix has enough gall to call him on it. Maybe that’s what Sylvain wants, to be called on it.

“You like calling me, hearing a man’s voice tell you how to touch yourself. You got hard at the mere sight of me, at remembering how hard you came imagining your cock inside my ass. Don’t give me that shit.”

Sylvain shuts his eyes, his hand moving without his permission. “It’s a kink.”

“Is it _really_?” Felix sneers. “You’re touching yourself right now.”

“Yeah,” Sylvain shoots back, shame falling to the wayside as his frustration climbs. “You caught me, I am.” Cut and dry and _angry_.

“Your eyes were all ooover me in that restaurant, which is pretty pathetic considering the atmosphere. What would you have done if I had chased you all the way into the bathrooms and cornered you, Sylvain?”

Fuck, has… has Felix ever used his name before? There’s something so intimate about it that makes his bones shake, that has him tingling all the way down to the base of his trembling cock. He wants his name said like that into the heat of his flesh and he wants to hear it forever in that chocolaty voice of his—_fuck!_

“What would you have done if I’d gotten on my knees and really given you five star service, huh? Would I still just be a fucking kink, then?”

“_Yes_,” Sylvain rasps, breathless.

“You don’t understand at all,” Felix seethes, the tease in his voice dissipating.

There’s some shuffling and Sylvain can’t be sure, but if he’s using his mind’s eye, he can picture that on the other side, Felix is maneuvering on his bedspread, trying to find the perfect orientation to spread himself open. He’s definitely doing _something_.

All at once, Felix says, “you just need a man to love you all over, show you that you need more than sex.”

And dimly Sylvain thinks to himself, _you couldn’t possibly be the one to do that for me_.

And firmly Felix says to him, “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do to you.”

“Please,” murmurs Sylvain straight off; his strokes turn much more frantic, his face turning sideways into the cold silk of his pillow.

Felix purrs out, “I’m going to suckle every inch of skin around your hips until you’re pink and your dick is ready to burst.”

_Please, yes._

“I’ll kiss you slow, grind up on you just how you want, just how you _need_, cause you need someone to love on you, don’t you? You’re so fucking lonely and sad, you’d kill for someone to just touch you and tell you that you’re perfect the way you are, huh?”

Moaning out like a slut, voice thick with clouded desperation, Felix’s tone takes on a softer form of it’s usually brutish pitch. It’s still rough but… compassionate, if he can tell what that sounds like on a stranger’s tongue. Sylvain isn’t sure. He just knows that it’s making him tense up and twitch. His joints all lock up and he’s twisting in the sheets ‘til he’s sorry—sorry he said it was a kink at all.

“I’ll let you put your tongue in my mouth, even let you get your grubby paws on me, you hungry animal. You just want someone to touch and love, someone to fuck and kiss at night. I’ll let you _fuck me_ if you’re good, if you’re patient and if you let me kiss you everywhere I like. You want that, don’t you?”

Strung out and sore, Felix sounds aching and lost when he moans, “that’s what you want, yeah?”

And Sylvain can’t possibly say no to that. “God, yes. Yes, I wanna fuck you so bad, fucking shit.”

“Yeah?” Felix muffles something of a cry and the way it crackles across the receiver has Sylvain’s pelvis quaking; oh, if he could be inside of him, he’d give up any earthly possession. “You wanna fuck men, don’t you? You wanna be inside of me, and fuck me, and touch my cock too, don’t you?”

“Yes, _yes_.” The shame does not exist.

“_Oh_, do it. Do it, please. Do it now. I wanna feel you inside of me. I wanna feel your hands on me, in my hole and on my cock.”

Whoa, the entire cadence of Felix’s voice has gone breathy, pitched, soprano and _thirsty_. Sylvain’s thrusting up into his hand at this point, body ragged and rigid and eager to let go. The reality consumes him slow as he pictures it now, the fantasy and the truth: the man lying spread eagle before him, taking every bit of Sylvain’s cock until he’s crying and spilling over; the man fingering himself, losing himself in the thrill of a midnight call and begging for more.

Sylvain comes nigh instantly.

“Fuck—_fuck_.”

He wants to empty it inside of Felix, inside of his master as he tugs him warm into his chest.

Sylvain isn’t quite sure why it happens in the haze following his high. Sylvain remembers being a child and attending Sunday school. Sylvain remembers being told that masturbation was bad and God didn’t like it. Sylvain did it anyway and a troublesome guilt always followed, like he’d hurt himself or hurt someone else by it. It only took until he was eighteen or so for the habit to kick itself, for the anxiety and reproach to fade from the act entirely. It’s been so long since the last time he felt sorry for anything at all, for hurting a woman or hurting himself.

And for a reason unnameable now, Sylvain feels sorry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "but felix doesnt have a deep voice" i played the game in japanese, where he does. its positively gorgeous. 10/10 would recommend as required listening to read this fic.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i promise im not purposely making it longer i swear to god

“Why’d you direct me to _him_?” asks Sylvain, stroking his cock not to anything in particular but just because it’s there and Dorothea’s voice is hot; also because he’d be lying if he said he _didn’t_ just play with it for no reason.

He figures, hey, y’know how girls just play with their titties ‘cause it’s fun? He’s something of the same. What’s a cock and balls for but a place for your hands to float to when you’re watching TV? Or when you’re chatting to someone who won’t know or won’t care.

“I mean,” Sylvain trails off, his eyes floating to the crunchy tissues in the wastebasket beside his bed, evidence of who he’d been on the phone with just minutes prior, “you said that you’ve got a caller ID that tells you my area code, did you want to pair us up from the start?”

“You _are_ smart under that exterior,” she jabs, laugh muffled around a mouthful of cookies. “I toss men I think that could be gay at Felix’s hole like ski balls.”

“But you knew nothing about me,” Sylvain cackles, his head craning back as he points his eyes to the ceiling, still in the zone of picturing Felix’s split body, spread wide and aching for him.

Fuck, he could’ve gone for a second round but it’s not like he’s gonna hang up on Dorothea and call him _again_. He’s probably got a different customer now anyways.

He’s not addicted, he swears.

“I don’t particularly care,” she says.

“I could’ve been ugly.”

“Oh, you are,” she reassures. “I think Felix is ugly too though, so you deserve each other.”

“Now I _know_ you’re fucking with me,” Sylvain gapes. “I’ve got like, two good qualities and both are that I’m handsome.”

She’s slapping the bed now from what he can hear, giggling and collapsing around his statements like they’re made of paper mache. Good grief, she really _isn’t_ attracted to men, Sylvain thinks, to not be attracted to him.

He’s at least fairly honest when he says it, that he thinks there’s only a few good things about him. Women only want him for his family name, a name attached to an incredible lawyer of a father and an even more successful electronics mogul of a mother. Women want him for the money he has, that he’ll never have enough of, that ensures that he can have a leg up in any career he wants to pursue without nary a hitch in the road. Women want him because he’s _pretty_.

Hearing Dorothea roast him over an open fire of his own making is somewhat… refreshing.

Because for some reason, he thinks that she must not actually hate him, but she definitely doesn’t want him.

Sylvain is astonished it took this long to discover but he’s really happy he’s found it: a woman who doesn’t want him.

“You’ve got one good quality,” she asserts, sniffling back _tears?_ Gods, she’s laughing hard.

“Yeah?” he invites.

“You give me money to just talk. Like… you haven’t asked me to do anything sexual this whole time. I almost didn’t think that was possible of any man ever.”

Sylvain stops touching his dick for a second.

“Yeah, I mean…” He gestures at the air, as if she can see and know that he’s trying to think of how to say it.

“You mean?”

“_Like…_”

It’s a focal point of contention for him, the fact that he’s been dying to be more attracted to her than he is. It pales in comparison to how badly he wants to slide his cock in between Felix’s two cheeks (either hole, doesn’t matter) and see him turn colors at the width. Sylvain is on fire with Felix, like he’s either unlocking some part of him he never knew existed, or like he’s engaging in some dark ritual he’s meant to hide.

He doesn’t quite have the wisdom to understand that maybe this is what internalized homophobia feels like. All he knows is that Dorothea is gorgeous, has a beauteous laugh, sees him through the façade to who he really is and it isn’t that scary.

Shouldn’t that be what he wants?

“I feel like, I _could_ ask you for sex,” he starts, “or admit that sometimes I’ve… been touchy with myself while we’ve talked over trivial things but…”

“But?” she asks, seemingly nonplussed.

“That’d ruin all this.”

Sylvain doesn’t need her to speak to know there’s a smile on the other line. He knows what she’s thinking and he’s not sure if he’s ready to accept what she thinks. Dorothea talks easy, and he almost wants her to go back to calling him ugly. He almost can’t stand the genuine loveliness in her voice.

“You want to though, huh?”

“I do,” he says, as though he’s confessing to murder or something similarly destructive. “It’s like something in my head is asking me for shit I don’t want.”

His eyes shut with disgust, thinking she’s become his therapist now—his therapist that some part of him wants to stick his dick in.

“I like just talkin’ to you. I’d like to talk more if we were friends and I didn’t have to pay but…”

“You don’t think you’re worth that much,” she says, and Sylvain feels his heart rattle to the base of his rib cage, flat against his spine.

He swallows. “Yeah.” _That explains it_.

“Here,” she says in the same intonation as any friend he’s ever had, bringing him in for a hug and it makes him wish he weren’t miles away in his bed, aching with sudden unbeknownst touch-starvation and a reluctance to admit the truth. “I can give you my real number.”

“I’m not trying to get you to pity me.”

“Who says I’d do that?” she laughs, the crinkling of a plastic container in the background likely the cookie tin she’s been chowing on all night. “You think I’d give my actual number to a guy I pity? I guess you don’t need it after all if you think I’m just tossing it at you so you can call me for _free_ and vent about your crap.”

“N-no no—”

“In fact, until we become a balanced set of friends, I might ask you to keep calling this number if you’re gonna do your thing where you complain about not being gay and not being attracted to me, because if I’m gonna play therapist I might as well bill you.”

There’s an unspoken wink that he can sense and he smiles wryly.

“But, I figure once I open up to you and start talking to you too, it’s equivalent exchange and you can phase that number out of existence.”

Sylvain nods, rubbing his chin.

“…So, what is your real number gonna be used for then?”

Dorothea sounds dry as all hell. “I thought you wanted to be my friend.”

“I do!”

“Then you call it to hang out with a friend, idiot. Tell me about your day, invite me to the mall. Take me to the movies or to a restaurant where you _don’t_ wanna bone the waiter.”

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist for Dorothea to understand where the problem lies. Sylvain surely doesn’t say it, merely rolls over in bed and finds a comfortable position that he thinks he can doze off into when the conversation’s over and she sounds melty like syrup when she says warm and slow, “you haven’t had a casual friend in a while, huh?”

Sylvain smiles sadly. “You caught me.”

“I don’t want anything from you, we already know this. You can come hang with me and my girlfriend some time.”

He perks up, much like a fox with its ears pointed. “You never told me you had a girlfriend.”

“Mhm, want me to tell you all about her?”

“I’d love to listen.”

“I won’t be able to tell if you’re jacking off over there so maybe I’ll tell you in person some other time.”

“Awww girl, you can’t trust me?” says Sylvain with all of his fake feelings hurt, steadily gripping himself through fabric.

“Good_night_, Sylvain,” she says and the click of the phone cuts him off.

Damn, she probably already knew. Glancing at the phone to see how high the bill ran up, Sylvain knows his time is running out. Soon he’s certain that this habit of his is gonna run itself into the ground. If anything could force the hand of his father into cutting him off financally it’s finding a few thousand dollar bills for sex hotlines.

Try explaining to your old man that you weren’t beating your dick, just talking about the weather. Fat fucking chance of that working.

Sighing, Sylvain sits upright and leans back on his hands, watching as his dick towers up through the hole in his plaid boxers. He may not be as into Dorothea as he once thought, but there’s a quintessential part of being a man and it’s getting your dick up to the idea of two girls.

Or at least, that’s what the cisheteronormative patriarchy has taught him.

Funnily enough, Sylvain hasn’t looked up girl on girl that often. It’s a porn category that for him has always felt lacking or just plain weird. There’s something extra guilty about it, and not guilty in the same way as staring at the man in the porno when you come is. It fundamentally feels as though it’s something not meant for his eyes, like he’s extra perverted because a man isn’t involved.

It’s on the _tip_ of his tongue. He always gets so close to self-awareness but it never takes root. Instead he’s grabbing his cock and thinking about girls kissing each other, pressing their tits into each other and moaning out sloppy but careful, like they’re afraid to get caught.

Okay, where does this wank off fantasy take place? A bathroom, of course. It’s a public bathroom and Dorothea’s back is squeezed into the wall. A mouth, a _woman’s_ mouth is on her now, suckling her titties and snatching them tight. Dorothea arches her back and it peels straight off the blue tiled wall behind her. The details are all fuzzy, he doesn’t know what Dorothea’s girlfriend looks like. Just any girl will do, surely. Anything with tits, maybe long hair—Dorothea’s knee is lodged between her girlfriend’s legs and her cunt is rubbing up against Dorothea’s thigh and they’re grinding on each other, holding onto each other in the oxymoronic public privacy of the bathroom. It’s a secret but only for so long until…

Until someone walks in and hears them from one of the stalls, but they don’t care. Dorothea’s feeling too good and Sylvain is stroking himself even faster, his other hand turning the sheets around in his fingers as he fucks into his hand. He’s biting his lips and concentrating so hard.

He wants to come so bad, he’s picturing anything that’ll do. Anything at all to make him come: her juicy tits, big fat tits, a set of just triple G cups, the kind with pink areolas; maybe she’s got the inverted kind he finds incredibly cute with a wet pussy, a _drenching_ pussy, just the kind her girlfriend wants to run her wide tongue all over.

…It’s not working. Why isn’t this working? Sylvain meets the plateau where his body’s achy and out of breath. This happened before days ago and he knows what fixed him up.

Alright, he’ll throw in a guy. This feels like defeat but now there’s a guy there. Is it him? _No_, that feels weird. She’s his friend now. He can’t fuck her now that she’s his friend.

Somehow, jacking off to the thought of her is fine but actually being the one in the fantasy is different. Don’t ask him how it works.

A guy who pointedly _is not_ Sylvain is bending her knee back now, yanking over the side of her panty-line to reveal her sopping wet hole. He slides in with ease. She’s moaning and groaning and crying and _dragging_ her nails down his chest. His cock opens her up so easy. Every inch of him is fit and his hips are snapping into hers with such force she can barely keep herself standing. His grip is tight to her voluptuous body. Sweat pours off the savage wolf tattoo on his right arm—

“Fuck, _goddammit_, no.”

That’s Felix. He can’t imagine Dorothea fucking Felix. That’s not hot. That’s probably actually illegal since for all he knows, Felix is gay. Felix has probably never seen a woman in his life, Dorothea being the sole exception, and it’s not like the two look like they get along.

God, he doesn’t want to resort to what worked for him before. He just can’t get the picture of Felix out of his head now, looking like a right snack in that uniform of his, blouse opened at the collar, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, black vest sleek and spotless, every plane of his body oozing danger and dominance… 

Sylvain shudders at the thought that plants fresh butterflies in his belly: his own body flattened into the tile by Felix’s weight, his own leg lifted for Felix to hold. He covers his mouth. No, _oh_.

Oh, that shouldn’t be hot. His thumb flicks itself across the head of his cock and he twitches up with a jolt. Oh, what if Felix was bending him in half, sneering down at him with those harsh amber eyes and taking control of him?

He swears on God, he’s never done this before. Sylvain’s scrambling to his bedside table to find he’s only got lotion that he _knows_ will burn his ass. He really can’t be considering this. He doesn’t even have anything to shove up there.

Rising up from the bed he storms into the bathroom off his master bedroom, hand slapping the light switch on and avoiding his reflection in the mirror. He rifles through the medicine cabinet with an embarrassing amount of vigor. There’s the Vaseline he last used a week ago when he burned his hand on the stove making popcorn shrimp. He supposes it’s got a better purpose now.

The jar in hand, Sylvain continues to glue his eyes to every surface but the reflective one before him. All he needs now is something to jam in there. He tries to contain his panting breaths.

_This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done_. _If I do this and enjoy it, I’ll truly know that I’m gay and I’m not_.

It crosses his mind momentarily that men get pegged and he thinks, _yeah_, _right_, with a level of derision he may be ashamed to repeat later. Spying the comb on his bathroom sink, he nets an idea and pulls open the drawer on the left side of the counter to find his brush sitting pretty, unaware of what he’s about to do to it.

He almost wants to apologize to it. It’s sleek, green, got a weird hole at the base of the handle that he is not excited to feel. It’s just the right size. It’s wider at the tip than anywhere else which makes it not ideal to shove up his ass. It’s not like he just buys things that are good for that though, and he’s not going to make the disgusting mistake of using something that is meant to be used as food (hot dogs and bananas and cucumbers and their uses be damned.)

“Okay, this is just an experiment.”

Girls experiment in college. Men probably do too. This is just a curiosity. This is just to know for sure. This is just a ‘see what happens.’

Sylvain shuts the bathroom door behind him, dropping his boxers and putting his body on all fours on the shower rug. He’ll do it in here. He won’t invite this activity into his bedroom until he’s sure he likes it. It’s something like respect, or a pointless compartmentalization of his problems. It doesn’t matter, he’s gathering a helping of petroleum jelly and smearing it across his ass now. His heart does its beating in his ears. A single finger circles the hole inquisitively and the jelly does its job when it slips inside without much effort made.

Okay, that’s really odd. That’s odd but it feels good in the way that…

“Augh, how do people avoid just shitting on themselves?”

He imagines that’s what it feels like because the only thing that’s ever been up there has been shit. That’s not the sexiest thing in the world to think about, but it explains the association in his brain.

Shimmying on his knees, Sylvain rests his cheek against the side of the bathtub with a shiver. It’s cold against his cheek. The jelly itself isn’t much warmer and he discovers what it feels like when something cold is inside the warmest part of your body: it feels fucking weird. His finger prods in and out, feeling not good but not bad either. He doesn’t know what he should be getting from it until the fantasy from before comes back into full swing:

Felix having him bent over, fucking into him hard and fast and watching him spasm under his weight. Sylvain blenches as he gathers a bit more jelly on the pads of his fingers, trying again, slipping two fingers inside and wondering when the pleasure will start. The stretch is already too much and that feels plenty unfair. A score of women, a score of _men_ take greater widths than this. He’s not even got the size of a cock inside him and Sylvain’s already about to tap out of this.

“God dammit, I need my hands free.”

How is he supposed to finger himself and jack off at the same time? Do gay men do this every day? What a fucking chore this is.

_Awww, look at you… trying to spread yourself for my cock. It’s your first time, isn’t it?_

Holding a breath hostage, Sylvain’s back dips as he envisions Felix’s voice. “Yeah,” he whispers, desperate.

_Let me help you open up._

It’s better, it’s so much better when Sylvain makes believe his hands are Felix’s hands. Those fingers are his and they scissor and sink ever deeper inside. His mouth hangs ajar just as his voice leaves him, coming stammered and strained as he fingers himself harder. The relaxing of his muscle feels so good, so _dirty_. It feels like a loss of control, like he’s relenting to something so much more powerful than him.

Sylvain’s rocking his hips into his hand, gasping and rasping hiccuped breaths. His body responds so well to it, to the thought of Felix praising him so.

_Look at how your hole gets so loose for me, ohhh. You take my fingers so well. You’ll take my cock even better._

Yeah, maybe he’s imagining a kinder voice than Felix has given but that’s what fantasies are for and it’s working. It’s working so fucking good. There’s a third finger joining the others now and his left hand is keeping firm to the bathtub with a shiver in his tendons. He opens himself. He spreads himself _wide_. He licks his lips and whines quietly as his free hand fumbles for the hairbrush beside him.

_You’re so ready for me._

Taking a moment to lather up the brush in jelly, getting it all over both hands and feeling only a secondary shame, Sylvain wonders if he’ll be shitting this jam out for hours after. With how bad he wants to come, he can’t force himself to care.

_Let me fuck you right now._

“God, please. Please, fuck me now,” he mutters under his breath, the kind of aching that he’s never known himself to carry—the kind of begging he’s never done and doesn’t plan to.

But right now he can’t help it. He lines the tool up and finds the flat head of it isn’t cozy against him. Kneading the corner of the brush’s handle against his hole, he gives a few rotations of the head before his cavity gives way once more. The sudden stretch makes his voice fall out fast, a loud noise, a _silly_ noise that sounds like pain and pleasure all at once.

In no time at all, Sylvain is sliding it as far as it will go. Some part of him marvels at the length of his own asshole. The other part wonders if he’s gonna hurt himself. The only part with blood in it begs him to get a move on, and Sylvain is reaching down to nurse his reddened, sobbing cock. Simply having the brush inside him is enough to get him off. Just having the girth inside of him, the pressure against his walls as they try to close, the way his whole body does a shiver when he clenches to no avail.

It feels like vulnerability, and it feels like _fucking amazing._

_Fuck, you feel so good, Sylvain._

Crying into his arm, Sylvain doesn’t even fuck himself with the brush. It sits so deep inside him while he strokes, rubbing himself to completion as he wishes he had Felix eight inches deep within him. The fiction of the fantasy’s enough. He spends the rest of his cum into the palm of his hand, gasping out an echo of Felix’s name into the bathtub as he comes. His hole does a thing it’s never done, or a thing he’s never noticed it do. It widens and restricts and squeezes and releases and _does_ something to make him come so much harder.

Sylvain’s collapsing into the side of his shower, the brush having fallen from his anus with the force of the orgasm. Never before had he felt such a powerful wave take him over.

It takes some time but once he gathers himself and tries to raise up on his knees, he finds that they’re rickety and bruised like he’d put them through the ringer.

That wasn’t really… the most comfortable position to put himself in. Also, his ass fucking stings.

His eyes glint down at the discarded brush, recalling the pleasure too strongly to be embarrassed by the ruined state of it.

“Sorry, man,” he says, as if it isn’t too late for that now.

As if he hadn’t just done the weirdest thing he’s ever done: stick a hairbrush up his ass.

As if he hadn’t just come from it.

… 

If Sylvain had a penny for every time during the week that he jerked his dick, he’d have enough money to buy a camera crew and star in a reality show about it: the guy so lonely he can’t help but slap his shit until it can’t breathe.

It’s less that he can’t get a date and more that he’s so sickened by the women that only want him for his wealth, only want him for his name, only want him to get a baby from him. Still, he tries to monitor how many times he dials up Felix’s number. They’ve done this song and dance enough times that he’s not so insecure anymore, so long as no one else knows.

No one but Felix and Dorothea know. This little kink is his to keep, and what’s better is that Felix likes good conversation too about books and movies and things to recommend on Netflix. The conversation never pokes its head in a weird direction but sometimes Felix will suggest that Sylvain get off the line for one reason or another.

Tonight he’s got something special when he says, “hey, you,” and Sylvain perks up like he’s been tossed a treat.

Ever the golden retriever, this one.

“Hey, you yourself.”

“I got a command for you,” he says, his cadence nothing different, nothing but brief and crisp but somehow something different that Sylvain’s never heard. “I want you to come to my house tomorrow night.”

Sylvain blinks once or twice, his heart almost stopping in his chest.

“Really?”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just assume that this fic isnt gonna end idk what to tell you

Sylvain is driving to a man’s house.

Sylvain is driving to _Felix’s_ house.

Sylvain is heterosexual and not gay and is driving to a gay sex worker’s house where there’s literally only one thing that could happen. He wants to deny the obvious but he’s got a pair of condoms in his pocket and he’s breathing awfully fast for someone not anxious about being proven wrong at all.

What happened yesterday was a freak accident as far as he’s concerned, and as pained as he is to admit it _plenty_ of men get pegged. Plenty of men have experimented. Anal is whatever. Anal is healthy and just fine and did you know that the prostate is the male g-spot? Sylvain just thought that was interesting and not gay at all.

Still… he’s dialing a number he’s never properly put into his phone before. He digs through months of mother chatter to unsurface it, and comes to find out that the number has rung him a few times to no avail. Sylvain’s that type of guy to let everything hit the voicemail until they leave a message so he knows what he’s in for. This man’s never left him a voicemail. Probably doesn’t even know what he’d say if he got ahold of Sylvain. Not like Sylvain knows any better.

Luckily when the bastard picks up, he doesn’t seem to mind that history. He’s just got one question: “does Dad know you’re calling me?”

“No,” says Sylvain, curt as he’s ever been.

“Does _Mom_ know?”

“Miklan, They don’t know I’m doing fucking anything. I don’t even talk to them often except to get cash.”

Sylvain turns waspish at the mere sound of his brother’s voice and Miklan scoffs gruffly, his throat sounding worn and scratched to shit.

“Lucky you.”

Here we go again. Sylvain doesn’t have time to care about how Miklan’s been cut off, or time to pretend he’s okay with listening to him prattle on about it. He’s quick to keep one hand at ten o’clock while the other turns his bluetooth on, connecting the phone audio to the car stereo. It’s so much worse, hearing Miklan in what feels like surround sound but he’s not gonna get into an accident trying to talk to the fucker.

Slapping his phone into his cup holder, Sylvain says, “I’ve got something I wanna talk to you about.”

“Yeah?” he answers, unsympathetic. “You’ve never cared to listen to what _I’ve_ had to say.”

“Look, Mik, ‘cause I don’t have money to fuel your drug addiction—”

“I’m not fucking doing drugs, jackass. Maybe if you answered any of my calls, you’d know that.”

Eyes lolling in annoyance, Sylvain stops at a red light and drums his hands against the steering wheel. “You’re right, you just deal them.”

“You know there’s a difference. I don’t stick anything in me. I don’t hurt myself.”

Yeah, you see, Sylvain doesn’t really believe that but that line of conversation isn’t going to lead him anywhere. It’s best not to have too long of a discussion with Miklan. It always ends with him lamenting his status as the black sheep of the family and scorning Sylvain for it as if he ever did anything wrong but be born. It’s a song and dance they’ve done long enough for Sylvain to not feel bad about anymore… so long as he doesn’t think about it.

In his defense, “yeah, well, I’m just going off of what Mom told me.”

“I didn’t get kicked out for doing drugs or even dealing them, idiot. I wasn’t even—”

“I _know_ why you got kicked out, Mik, that’s why I’m calling you.” The words are spat with such venom, Sylvain almost forgets that despite all the bullshit between them, this is one thing he can’t fault Miklan for; he’s a victim of circumstance almost as much as Sylvain is and their parents aren’t the most kind and honest people around.

Miklan’s voice comes taciturn and anxious, “so you do.” He says, “guess Mom told you?”

“Nope,” Sylvain corrects. “Mom was content with saying they just couldn’t support your drug habit.”

Sylvain hears a click of the tongue on the other side and the sound of a lighter snapping and being lit.

“I wasn’t even dealing drugs at the time. I am _now_ but that’s because it’s good work when you’ve got nothing else, when you’ve got felony domestic violence charge and no one wants to hire you.”

“It was Dad,” continues Sylvain, not letting himself get tugged into the ditch. He rotates the steering wheel mechanically around the corner, his eyes peeled on the road as he says, “he let it slip a month or two ago that he’d been happy I was born, happy he could have a son that wasn’t a…”

“Go figure,” laughs Miklan without a hint of mirth. “Mom’s almost the worst one. She feigns like she’s such a bleeding heart when she’s just as bad. At least Dad’s all rot inside and out.”

Sylvain adjusts his rear view mirror, his eyes catching the reflection as he tries to forget just how much his eyes look just like _his_.

“I’m not even—”

“Why didn’t you talk to me, Mik?” he says, voice aching with agony, and Miklan doesn’t respond. “You were such a nasty kid, you could’ve just talked.”

“You don’t know anything about what happened. You don’t know anything about our parents, about _me_—we were a fucking… church-going affluent family and I ruined their fucking image. That’s all it was. You’re looking for something that isn’t fucking there.”

“I _do_ know that you were so rude about destroying my dolls, about purposefully leaving me to get lost whenever we ran around the neighborhood so that you could hang out with that one boy—”

“_Don’t fucking talk about him_. I’m fucking hanging up.”

“Mik, just _listen_ for two seconds. I need help.”

“Find it elsewhere.”

He hangs up the phone and Sylvain wonders why he bothered at all. Rubbing his forefinger and thumb between his eyes, Sylvain massages the bridge of his nose with disdain.

That really only served to make him feel worse about this whole visit.

Imagine if Miklan’s life was ruined all for Sylvain to be favored, when Sylvain is truly no different.

Pulling a u-turn after missing his freeway exit, Sylvain sighs to himself and thinks that maybe he could’ve been a bit nicer.

It’s hard, you see, when you have no good memories with someone, not even a little.

… 

Felix’s house is only a few minutes farther than Dorothea’s. He figures that making this drive takes longer but would end up being more cost efficient in the long run if this becomes a thing, the two of them meeting up. If it is for sex, that is. He’s still unsure. He’s certain that it’s gotta be. After all, he’s visiting during the hours that Felix is typically on call—when the website he’s registered under glows _available_ on his profile page in bright pink neon beneath his photo.

Yeah, Sylvain eventually found the website in particular which makes payment much easier instead of him having to dial his credit card number every time he makes a call. It’s also something of a boon, being able to see the various photographs that Felix has on his page. Most are what you’d expect out of a dom: shots with crops, shots with whips, shots in a pair of ridiculously huge platform boots, shots where he’s holding up a ball-gag with a frown.

In fact in all of Felix’s pictures he’s frowning. He looks sickened by the mere idea of having to touch another human being and Sylvain supposes that for men who adore humiliation, that’s the charm of it all. He tries not to think too hard about how badly he wants to see a smile out of him, even if it’s a smirk. He saw it once at his day job and he hasn’t been able to unsee it since.

God, maybe if they _do_ fuck, he can see Felix grin as he takes all of him.

Okay, yeah, Sylvain will be disappointed if they don’t have sex, he won’t lie. Whatever that means can be sorted out later.

Brushing his hands off on his blue jeans, shedding the sweat with ample wiping, Sylvain marches up to the front porch with a stride that screams _expediency_ over anything else. It’s not like Felix saw him do it, it’s fine. He composes himself at the door, wondering if his stupid seashell bracelet that screams _‘I look like I’m trying to convince everyone I once lived in California’_ should’ve been taken off. It doesn’t go with his outfit at all, does it?

_Shit_, too late now. Felix is unlocking the door and he opens it with his left arm propped up against the door frame, cool as a cucumber.

And he says, smooth and sharp with danger, “mmmm, you’re a dirty animal, aren’t you?”

And Sylvain straightens his back up, thick eyebrows jumping up his forehead and his dick twitching hard in his pants.

“Uh—”

Felix’s face contorts into something brimming with frustration. He yanks a finger up to his head and, _ohhhhh_, he’s on call. He’s got a headset on and a mic pointed at his mouth. Right, so he wasn’t talking to Sylvain. Got it. Sylvain coughs and clears his throat, thinking to himself that Felix must really do this job quite dryly if he can say those kinds of things without an inch of difference in his face directly in front of a stranger.

Well, maybe Sylvain isn’t quite a stranger at this point. He hasn't exactly figured out what they are to each other yet. Maybe just seller and consumer, worker and customer. All Sylvain has paid so far tonight was the gas money to get here, though. As he steps inside of Felix’s home and listens quietly to Felix muttering uncouth language into the mic, he wonders if he’ll have to whip out his credit card too in addition to his dick.

It’s a quaint place with a “Fuck Off” doormat that Sylvain only notices once he’s inside and is closing the door. That tracks for what kind of person he knows Felix to be so far. There’s a surprisingly sparse number of things in the living room. A flat screen tv is mounted to the east wall and a loveseat sits parallel to it. They walk through it and Sylvain is floored by the sheer minimalism. It’s a small place. The whole house must be no more than four rooms.

Murmuring something about, “you can’t take much more of this, huh,” into his headset, Felix leads Sylvain into the kitchen where there’s a high counter and a set of bar stools set aside for them. He raps his palm against the marble as he passes by, a signal no doubt to Sylvain to take a seat as Felix travels next to the cabinet and starts plucking out boxes of… tea?

Huh. That’s classy. Sylvain’s always been more of a coffee person.

Sitting in the (somewhat) silence, Sylvain wonders if the whole night’s going to be like this: the two of them interacting with negligible speech while Felix makes his late night funds. Certainly, Felix can’t expect him to listen to his teasing, velvety voice all night while keeping his hands to himself, can he?

Crossing his legs, Sylvain observes as Felix brews a pot on the other side of the kitchen. Saying the other side is a bit much considering how small the place is, but it’s far enough away that he can’t make out every word of what Felix is saying anymore. Once he makes his way back around to Sylvain and props the teacups upon the countertop for the two of them, he’s saying, “come for me, then, you little whore,” and Sylvain is holding a fist above his mouth.

Good fucking lord.

Sylvain’s eyes are the size of the teacups themselves once Felix takes the seat beside him and lifts his cup up to blow upon it. The steam brushes past Sylvain’s cheeks. Sylvain shudders and smiles, picking up his own cup. They clink together in a toast to nothing in particular.

“Don’t you feel better?” Felix coos into the mic.

_Not at all_, thinks Sylvain loudly, _and I don’t know why_.

It shouldn’t bother Sylvain at all, hearing Felix talk dirty to other customers. It’s not like they’re together. It’s not like he _invited_ Sylvain here for something only to not give him the common courtesy of not being on the phone while he’s here.

It shouldn’t make him jealous or bothered at all, in fact. The only thing it should do, maybe, is get his dick hard, and it’s really trying to get hard.

The jealousy is kinda ruining it, and boy does Sylvain despise when other people are jealous. Wild that he could catch the green-eyed fever for once. There’s just something in Felix’s eyes that he can spy as he takes careful sips of his tea, wincing some as it burns his tongue—_how Sylvain wants to kiss and suck on his tongue_—something that makes Sylvain want to have him all to himself.

Felix taps his headset with a grimace. “Take care,” he grouses, and assumably hangs up.

Dropping it on the counter, Felix is finally free. He glances up at Sylvain with a judging eye and says, “I wasn’t sure if you’d come.”

Sylvain scoffs. “You think I’d stand you up?”

“You’re an hour late,” Felix informs, voice less scathing than Sylvain assumed it’d be.

And _oh_.

Maybe that has something to do with why he was in the middle of a call when Sylvain arrived. Coughing into his hand, Sylvain disguises the stupidity he feels with a guilty sort of smile he's too good at making by now.

“I like to keep people on their toes.”

“Uh-huh,” Felix says, aloof. “I never invite anyone over, especially not customers. You’re repaying my kindness with childishness, now.”

Yikes. Guess he really fucked this one. Sylvain exhales fakely.

“The traffic was pure hell.”

“You weren’t sure if you wanted to come,” assesses Felix. “You ‘aren’t gay,’ after all.”

Snorting out a breath, Sylvain sets his tea down before he ends up laughing and spilling it all over. He wipes his mouth with the corner of his wrist and his smile comes easy.

“It’s not wild for you to be my one exception.”

“I’ve heard that line before and it doesn’t seduce me,” Felix says, unimpressed, eyes cautiously gauging Sylvain for… something; Sylvain bounces his leg against the stool, antsy. “I’ll be forward with you though: you disrespected me, so now I’m going to work for the rest of the night.”

Great. Just great. Sylvain’s already made a fool of himself. This is somehow worse than his repeated trips to the bathroom at the pizza place.

“If you want to make up for lost time while I’m working, I’m sure you can figure out how.”

Sylvain blinks. _What the fuck does that mean?_

Felix lifts his tea cup, sipping gingerly while his deep copper eyes glint coyly up at him, the fuzz of his sweater curling over his wrists—

Hey, hey Felix? Hey, Sylvain’s brain here. Please, what the _fuck_ does that mean?

…

It’s been twenty minutes and Sylvain still doesn’t know. They’re seated on Felix’s bed in something like a cuddle and they’re talking about bullshit. Felix has got his headset on but no one’s called him just yet. Sylvain’s back is to the pillows and he’s got Felix sat between his legs, his back to Sylvain’s chest.

Did Felix mean he wanted Sylvain to make a move on him? Oh, he isn’t sure that he knows how. He’s never… done it with a guy before. Phone sex is something different. You don’t have to figure out all the details. It just has to sound good in your ears, look good in your head, feel good in your hands. It’s the epitome of self-indulgence. Actually touching another man… Sylvain will have to learn from scratch.

Felix doesn’t seem like he cares at all to help Sylvain figure it out. He’s filing his fingernails (that are _much_ more well kept than Sylvain was expecting) and going on about, “so after my brother died, my father threw all of his savings at giving him the most _ridiculously_ extravagant funeral ever, because why take your remaining son to college when you can be pitiful and sad? Glenn wouldn’t have liked the fucking Dropkick Murphys playing at his wake, anyways.”

Really, this conversation isn’t doing Sylvain’s cock any favors. It’s dead as Glenn is. Maybe Felix did that on purpose.

“That sucks,” Sylvain says without really meaning much of it. “My older brother’s still alive and he’s a worthless dick.”

And for reasons he can already surmise, he feels a throb in his chest at the language he’s used even if he’s used it his whole life. There are just certain things that shouldn’t happen to a human being no matter how horrid they are. Getting tossed out of your home and excommunicated for who you choose to love? That’s pretty bad.

That’s not why Miklan is a piece of shit though. Breaking Sylvain’s nose and breaking the legs off all of his Bratz dolls? That’s why he’s a piece of shit.

Before Sylvain can even elaborate, Felix mumbles to himself, “is a wake the same thing as a funeral?”

Squinting, Sylvain says, “no, a wake is—”

“Shut up, I’ve got a call.”

Sylvain shuts his eyes and prepares himself to be blueballed. That’s _really_ what Felix’s plan was, right? To get them seated like this only for him to tease Sylvain in this indirect way. That seems devilish enough to work, cruel enough to be something of Felix’s own single-minded design. There goes Felix adjusting the headset as he shimmies around between Sylvain’s legs, not moving from his spot on the bed to utter, “name and kink,” just as chill as he always has to Sylvain.

He bites his lip, listening in to Felix’s every word.

“It’s you again,” he says, “haven’t had enough of me, yet?”

_No_, Sylvain thinks to himself.

“Haven’t had enough of my tight asshole? You’re sickening. You have a _wife_ and yet you keep calling me. …Don’t get off to that, you prick.”

Disgusting. Sylvain supposes it’s plenty common of married men to be in denial. He wonders if Felix is genuinely put off by that or only pretending for money. Actually, Sylvain thinks it’d be more efficient if he was honestly disgusted but stayed on the line because telling these bastard men what sacks of shit they are nets him bills after bills. Really, Felix gets paid to tell all of these men that they’re sick, and that’s powerful.

It’s something only someone strong could put themselves through.

“You needed me so badly. You called me just yesterday and you’re already thirsty for more. You’re _insatiable_.”

There’s gotta be something about the way Felix says that, because it makes Sylvain’s balls pinch up and his stomach twist around. Fuck, he’s so horny already and Felix has yet to get too far into it. He just wants to imagine Felix is saying it to him. Just tease _him_, talk down to _him_, pleasure _him_.

Sylvain thinks he’ll die if he can’t touch him.

“Put your hands on me if you want it so bad, pig.”

Swallowing hard, Sylvain clenches his eyes shut. _He’s not talking to me_.

“You’re so weak. You can’t even make a move for yourself. You need everything given to you. You want me to come and worship that filthy cock of yours. Why don’t you learn to worship _mine_ instead?”

Holy shit. Sylvain sucks in a deep, shaking breath. He’s gripping the pillows behind him, afraid to even let his knees rest against Felix anymore. It’s as though he’ll combust and lose control the second that he reaches out for him.

No, he can’t ruin his work. This isn’t just some silly punishment, Felix is literally getting paid to do this. He can’t just rub his hands all over him, slip his hand into his pants and squeeze his thick cock and make him moan and cry against him—_fuckgoddammit_.

“Come on, you’re pathetic. _Touch me_.”

_Don’t, he’s not talking to you._

“I know you hear me,” Felix whispers. “I’m talking to you.”

_No, he’s not talking to you._

God, Sylvain just wishes that the man on the other line would answer him. Hearing Felix nearly pleading is unbearable. His body is so close. Sylvain’s holding his breath, eyes peering down at the lovely nape of his neck. He can bet Felix smells so good and uses a cinnamon spiced shampoo. If only he could press his face against him… 

Felix groans. “It’ll feel good when you do.”

Fuck it.

Sylvain braces his hands against the bed and cranes forward, his nose pressing up against the back of Felix’s head, kissing the back of his ear, floating to his neck, breathing in the natural scent of him.

It does something _wild_ to him.

Slipping his hands around and up, snaking along Felix’s sides and up through his cottony grey sweater, Sylvain tugs him close and Felix gasps hoarsely against the fuzz of the microphone, arching into his touch. Sylvain nips at his flesh, sucking an unsightly welt into the pale skin. His hands don’t move to anywhere in particular, merely rub and massage the surface of his skin. Gravitating as they are sure to do to each of his nipples, Sylvain circles the skin slow and tugs with an experimental suggestion. Guess it was a good idea: Felix is writhing and grinding back against him.

“Th-there you go, you hungry animal. That’s it. You wanna touch me and get me dirty all over with your fat cock. Wanna… slide it against me and come between my cheeks. You won’t even fuck me right.”

Every time Sylvain pinches up his buds, Felix does his worst at suppressing a yelp inside his throat. It’s the closest Sylvain’s ever heard to a grown man _squeaking_. It comes out so honest, so delicate and so _hot_. He nudges his cock up against Felix’s back through his jeans. He’ll die to have the friction, to feel it slide across the small of his back.

He bites a few more markings into Felix’s shoulder with abandon, his right hand fastening to his own zipper to free himself. Pulling his cock through his boxers, Sylvain jitters as the head slides up the line of Felix’s spine, spreading precum along his back as he grinds his body up against his.

The whole world comes to a standstill as Felix starts to pull his black leggings down. They stretch and slide with ease and soon he’s gawking in awe at Felix’s perfectly peach-shaped ass. It’s almost like a heart. His hips are probably the most incredible thing about him. He’s pressing his hands against the bed to prop himself up a little bit, maneuvering his buttocks right above Sylvain’s cock. With a few slides back and forth, Felix gets the point across. Sylvain snatches Felix’s waist, slotting his dick between his cheeks and feeling the head of his dick press against the plush of Felix’s balls.

_What a fucking feeling this is._

“Ahh, that’s it. Th-that’s it, you pervert. Tell me more. Tell me what you want to do to me.”

_I wanna fuck you until you’re crying_, Sylvain thinks.

God, it feels like heaven to just grind and fuck himself against Felix like this. He could come like this just fine. Fuck, he might come like this without trying.

“You wanna fuck me? Stick your rotten dick in me and fill me ‘til I’m bursting with your cum?”

_Oh, Jesus._

“You call me so often. You’re such a pathetic whore, I already prepared myself for you.” Felix’s breath shakes inside his throat. “S-so you can do it. Just fucking do it already, if you’re man enough.”

Sylvain’s quaking all over. He has to remember, Felix is just making shit up to get some customer off. What he’s saying isn’t true. He hasn’t prepped himself at all. Sylvain can’t slip inside. Sylvain _can’t_ just spread Felix apart and guide his cock inside like he wants. This is fine, this is enough. Grinding up against his body is enough.

“You’re too scared to do it?” he huffs and Sylvain bites into his own lip.

A thought happens to him: what if Felix… really _was_ talking to him? Like, maybe he can word things so that he’s talking to the both of them? God, that’d be so good. That’d be so smart of him, so smart and so sexy. It’d also just be wishful thinking. The last thing he wants is to breach his consent and stick his dick inside without knowing that it’s okay.

…Then again, Felix really did just pull his spandex down and start riding on his dick. The lines are clearly blurred here and Sylvain wishes that they weren’t so much. He’ll just mind his own business, not take any chances—

“God, please,” Felix pleads. “_Please_, fuck me stupid.”

Okay, Sylvain doesn’t know if he’s calling the person on the phone stupid, or if Felix is requesting all too kindly to be literally _fucked stupid_. This thought makes him chuckle just a tad, giving him just enough courage to press the head of his cock against Felix’s asshole, preparing to get whacked by him or see his head whip over his shoulder with an antagonistic glare.

What he isn’t prepared for is his dick shoving easily past the swollen, loosened, lubed up rim of Felix’s hole. It doesn’t slide all the way but it enters without warning—to _either_ of them.

And Sylvain sees white.

_He really did. The fucker really did._

“_Yes_, yes,” cries Felix, voice breaking as he braces himself against Sylvain’s knees, his leggings squeezing around the middle of his thighs, leaving small red rings as they stretch and press into his skin. “Fuck me like that, _like that_, if you can, if you’re good enough.”

Sylvain can hardly think twice before he’s bucking up into that wondrous heat surrounding him. He’s had anal sex before with girls but they’ve never seemed to lube themselves up enough and it’s always so goddamn painful. He can recall having his dick rubbed raw by some girl’s asshole and she ended up bleeding. It fucking sucked.

_This?_ A whole ‘nother story. Felix is tightening up around him but the lube is treating them both so right, it’s like nothing’s holding him back at all from slamming up between Felix’s walls. Sylvain fucks up into his body, watching as he bounces up and down upon his cock so freely, his messy bun flopping against his neck. Felix is crying out a bit too loud, Sylvain thinks, for how close the mic is to his open mouth. The man on the other line likely loves it if he’s loud, if he had to guess.

But right now, Sylvain doesn’t want to imagine Felix pleasing anyone else but him. He clings close to him, possessive, _petty_, hoping he’s fucking him better than any of these men ever could, better than anyone ever will.

“S-so good,” Felix croaks, barely able to speak as Sylvain wraps his arms around his body, crushing his thighs against his body as Sylvain’s hands form a single fist around him; it’s like he’s bear-hugging Felix around his middle but Sylvain’s caught his thighs and he’s keeping Felix’s legs held open for him. “So rough. You’re s-so hungry for me, it’s wrong.”

Catching the lobe of Felix’s ear between his incisors, Sylvain tugs and muffles a moan into his hair, “fuck, you feel so good around me, Felix.”

Did the other guy hear that? Sylvain hopes he didn’t.

_Sylvain hopes he does._

Felix’s fingernails dig sharp into Sylvain’s tan arms, his muscles going taut in their bid to hold Felix against him. Going utterly drippy and slack in Sylvain’s grip, Felix collapses his head back against Sylvain’s collar and gasps out fast, “Sylvain, _Sylvain_,” as his headset drops off his ears and dangles around his neck.

“There’s nobody there, is there?” Sylvain guesses.

“You took,” Felix pauses to breathe, “ far too long to figure that shit out.”

“I think _you’re_ the one that’s so hungry for me,” he snaps, thrusting up hard and knocking into that special spot inside that has Felix crumbling around his cock, moaning senselessly.

“Fuck you,” spits Felix.

Sylvain breaks the fist and reaches one hand down to palm Felix’s bobbing cock, listening in as he whines at the sudden touch. His own cock throbs at the noises he makes.

It’s not long before Sylvain empties out inside of him. So much for bringing condoms, plural in fact. Felix doesn’t seem to mind. He almost appears to relish in the feeling as Sylvain pumps ounce after ounce of cum inside him, his orgasm soon to follow as Sylvain strokes his cock faster and faster.

There is no explaining it away: Sylvain has the cum of another man on his hands; Sylvain’s been inside of him and Sylvain’s kissed up and down his neck as he crashed down from his high, felt Felix’s dick go soft in his grip without a bit of disgust or regret. He’s landed on a planet he’s never been to before and discovered the air is surprisingly breathable.

Felix twists around to look at him. Sylvain captures his lips in his own.

The air here, in the warmth of Felix’s mouth, too, is surprisingly breathable.

Sweet, even.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (silly author voice) this ones a big longer than usual, whoops.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta'd by cha cause i got real lazy this time, ty dear

Well, that wasn’t how Sylvain saw this going down: his first time with a man. In the afterglow, he’s examining Felix’s room.

There’s a real ass shield hanging on one of the walls of the bedroom, a pair of swords crossing over the top of it. Those can’t be real, he ponders to himself, wondering if Felix just thinks old medieval shit is cool.

Felix is laid across him, remarkably silent. They haven’t said a word, mostly because Sylvain never knows what to say after sex and Felix has never really said much even on the phone, always waiting for Sylvain to speak up first. The brunette seems the type to gather his thoughts before saying them, something that Sylvain would know little about.

Not _entirely_, lying so effortlessly to so many women involves a bit of forethought. In the beginning he had to use so much brain power to lie effectively, to ensure that he was not going to get caught up in it. The longer his stints went for, the less and less he’d care. After the first few dozen broken hearts, Sylvain found that the amount of women that wanted him vastly outnumbered the amount he could be concerned to care for. Too many times they’d want some pillow talk out of them and he’d have to tell them, not too kindly, _“I’m done, can we just sleep?”_

Really, the quiet was a mercy. The silence prevented all those women from hearing what he really thought of them. It’s only now that he’s with a man that he fears what Felix’s silence means.

Back to examining the room, he supposes, diagnosing the ceiling as decidedly _popcorn_. Their bodies are glued together at the intersections where their skin meets. For comfort’s sake, they tidied up a tad: Sylvain’s dick is back in his unzipped jeans and he tugged up Felix’s tights for him, part of his flaccid cock still giving a gentle twitch at the sight of his glossy ass.

_Something_ about Felix is addictive. No matter how many times he glimpses over every inch of him, Sylvain can’t stop feeling such tangible, _unerasable_ arousal. Everything about him is so delectable in a way he’s never experienced before.

The long hair draws him in and every angle in his body is sharp, deadly, and Sylvain wants to slice his hands along every inch of him, learn him, know him.

All of these thoughts and yet… he has no idea what just happened between the two of them. Far from love, not a relationship, a… friends with benefits situation, maybe?

The quiet kills, and Sylvain chokes on nothing at all when he says, “that was my first time.”

“No shit, honey.”

Sylvain snorts.

“Did I do something wrong?”

“No, you told me on the phone, our first conversation that you’d never been with a man.”

Huh, yeah he did. Sylvain supposes he’s just trying to find something to talk about to fill the silence up. He doesn’t have to work any harder when Felix flattens his hands against Sylvain’s chest, lumbering onto his hands and knees over him with a bristled grunt.

“You came inside me.”

Arms folding behind his head, interlocking beneath the pillow, Sylvain stretches and he tries not to notice the linger of Felix’s irises along the sinew of his upper body, _hungry._ Still? Damn.

“I did,” he says, like he’s actually proud of it and Felix’s eyes squint, his eyebrows knotting up like he’s almost pitying him for thinking that’s a good thing.

“God, I hate you,” Felix says like he really means it and Sylvain can’t help being endeared, because there is in fact, no way he hates him.

Maybe he’s just riding the high after the orgasm but Sylvain can’t be bugged to think about what this means for him. He isn’t thinking about gay or straight or if this is a relationship. There’s only one thing on his mind and it becomes increasingly obvious as he observes the pink in Felix’s face, as his hand lingers at Felix’s hip, as he tugs his fingernails against the stretchy fabric and thinks of all the juices likely leaking out of him slow.

That should be disgusting but instead Sylvain leans up on one elbow, the hand at Felix’s hip curling around to press between his cheeks. Even through the fabric, his fingers come away slick and Felix makes a noise at the touch, a little _“ah”_ that gives Sylvain all the confidence he needs.

“I can take care of that for you,” he says, about the cum thing, not about the hate thing because as Sylvain already knows, that isn’t true.

Felix delivers a scrutinizing stare to Sylvain’s wild eyes; the red head is licking his lips and he’s more than eager. What a giver he can be when he’s in the mood for it.

In fact, to say that Sylvain is a giver is a brave oversimplification of the truth: he’s more than good at making people feel good; it’s all he’s ever been _good_ at.

Taking only seconds to swap back into his dominating persona (as it has become clear to Sylvain that it is indeed one), Felix scoffs and wraps his fingers around Sylvain’s throat, lowering him cautiously back down into the pillows.

“You can beg for it,” he taunts.

“Ooh, you into chokin’, babe?” Sylvain laughs.

“For you, I am,” he says in the same voice he’s always used for it.

“You like that phrase,” Sylvain notes, dying not to care about how his dick pulls to an eventual half-mast at the touch of Felix’s fingertips against his pulse.

Felix does not mash his palm against the crown of his adam’s apple, rather, applies pressure with the pads of his fingers into the sides of his neck almost. It’s gentle and yet Sylvain doesn’t know why his head feels lighter already. He squirms under his touch.

“Maybe I do like choking,” he says flippantly. “Maybe _you_ do.”

“M… Maybe,” gasps Sylvain and Felix’s fingers retract off his carotid.

“If you don’t, I won’t.”

_God_, no that was hot. Sylvain might ask him to do that again. After this though, after _this_: “maybe later, right now turn that ass around,” and he says it with a twirl of his wet finger through the air.

Shockingly, Felix doesn’t put up much of a fight. Guess it really is more of a job than anything else. Where his own pleasure is concerned, Felix is straightforward as they come. Once he’s backed up off of Sylvain, he turns his body around and allows the round curve of his ass to jut into the air on hands and knees as he dangles his head down. Through his legs, Felix makes eye contact with him, his mysterious expression utterly unreadable to Sylvain.

His voice is blank but aroused. “Take care of it, then.”

Fingers wiggling, a sinister smile playing on his lips, Sylvain says, “you’ve got it, _master_.”

Indicative of their transitioning ‘relationship’ now, Felix utters a small, “you can just say Felix,” moments before Sylvain has craned his neck forwards and has yanked his slimming black leggings back down from his hips.

And Sylvain’s gotta say: the view is stunning.

This is his first time ever taking a good gander at what a man’s cock, balls, and asshole look like at the same time. It’s not like he’s ever been able to look at himself from this angle and he sure as hell has never looked up gay porn. What he’d thought he might be grossed out by, just disgusted by, would be the sight of Felix’s hole steadily leaking with cum, a visible string lurching from it and the black tights. Most importantly: balls are supposed to be gross. Sylvain has them. Balls just aren’t nice. Felix’s balls? They’re kinda nice, and it’s not because they’re shaven either.

Actually… he’s kinda clean shaven everywhere. That’s weird and something he wants to comment on, but Sylvain doesn’t because he’s not about to complain about smooth, sexy bare skin. He’s never fucked a guy and certainly not a bearish one. He’s gotta work his way up the ladder, but he chalks Felix’s body care choices up to him being gay or being a bottom (though it’s not like Sylvain knows much about being either.)

Felix’s cock hangs down and his balls are all wet and glistening from where the cum has dripped into the tights and spread, sticking to his skin. Experimentally, Sylvain licks a long stripe up from the bottom of his balls all the way up to his hole and Felix shivers like he’s trying so desperately to stay in place. The way his body rattles only spurs Sylvain on further, and it occurs to him once or twice that he’s cleaning up his own waste but he’s done it before. It’s no nastier coming out of Felix than any girl.

Sylvain “I’m secure enough in my own sexuality to eat sperm out of my girl’s cunt” Gautier couldn’t be more sure of himself when he snatches Felix by the hips and relocates him over the top of his face. Yes, he lets his head collapse back into the pillows and Felix makes a scramble to keep himself upright, his hands dragging across Sylvain’s shirt and coiling the fabric in his tight grip. Sylvain darts his tongue in and Felix cries out, his hips quaking and bouncing against it.

“_Fuck_, fuck, fuck.”

In response to Felix’s earlier statement, he teases, “you can just say Sylvain.” And then he dives his tongue back inside, lapping at his own cum as it squelches out of Felix.

Oh, squelch is such a vile word, isn’t it? But it isn’t vile when it’s Felix. It’s not dirty when it’s him. Or maybe if it is, it’s dirty in the best possible way. It makes Sylvain’s heart beat fast to pleasure him, to make him rock against his face and struggle to support himself on his hands and knees. He’s muttering and stammering echoes of his name, broken up syllables of Sylvain as he fails to keep himself sill.

_That’s good, that’s so good, say it more,_ he wants so deeply to say, but his mouth is busy.

The texture of it against his tongue is augmented by the lubricant, which does not taste bad but is rather… flavorless in the way that water is. It’s pretty slimey, a silicon based lubricant (he’s been around, he can tell by taste alone) and the more that he pulls at Felix’s cheeks, spreading them wider, the farther reach his tongue has and the more Felix loses himself.

_I wanna fuck you again already, I never want to stop._

Felix must feel the same. He’s crying out so much louder than Sylvain’s heard thus far. Sylvain slots one finger inside, digging and twisting and then entering a second. He’s earnestly doing his job here, trying to empty out all the cum, but he’s not unopposed to prodding at that little spot he noticed Felix chirping over every time he touched it.

He knows from yesterday exactly what that is, and Felix arches up, his legs fumbling soon after as he crumbles into Sylvain’s touch.

“Fuck, I can’t—”

But Sylvain can. Oh, he surely can. His hands reposition to Felix’s thighs and he holds them up a tad (so he’s not suffocating beneath Felix’s ass), and color him surprised to actually be capable of the task. The rest of Felix’s much smaller body collapses onto Sylvain’s front and he seems to reach one hand down to stroke at himself all the while. Sylvain’s big fingers wrap around his leggings, cinching them tighter around Felix’s thighs until they’re both certain they’re gonna tear.

A few more lathers of his tongue up and around and Felix is coming for a second time. Great ropes of white paint Sylvain’s clothes and his orgasm is punctuated by a series of sharp, unevenly dispersed gasps that sound yanked out of him.

Sylvain licks his hips, maneuvering Felix onto his side next to him, careful to move the pillows out from under his wet ass.

He sighs and laughs. “How was that?”

“Auuuughhh…”

…

Sylvain locates a bottle of water in the refrigerator, having popped in himself while Felix recovered on the bed in a bizarre heap of body and fabric. By the time Sylvain returns, he finds that Felix has completely shed all the rest of his outer skin and the sweater he’d bled sweat through is now splayed across the floor along with his tights. It’s to be expected, Sylvain took all his clothes off too and now is clad in just his boxers.

The fact still remains that as he reaches the bedroom, he’s floored to see every inch of Felix’s skin on display. His hair’s in tangles down his back. His body is decorated in scars and Sylvain is curious to know… why, but there’s a strange allure to it. What does a pizza boy by day, sex worker by night do to end up with all these nicks and pokes in him?

What pulls his attention further is his desire to get a better look at the tattoo on his arm. It seems to make a face at him as Felix flexes his arm, plucking the cigarette he’d lit out of his lips and waving from across the room. He’s laid out on his belly across the bed, kicking his legs without a care in the world. His ancient eyes, like a record keeper, scan Sylvain and search for… something. Not sure if he gets it though.

“Toss that my way,” he says, blowing smoke out. 

“Hold on, I suddenly need it,” Sylvain argues, taking the first sip which ends up being a hilariously long one.

“Oi, I’m the one that asked for one.”

Breathing in deeply, Sylvain caps the bottle once more and says, “yeah and then you had to make me thirsty again,” before making the march to the bed, pressing the cold plastic against Felix’s neck and ears.

The hair must guard against it some, because Felix doesn’t shiver so much as he slaps the bottle out of Sylvain’s hand, catching the bottle quickly after it lingers in the air. _Whoa_, fast.

“I didn’t say freeze me, dickhead.”

“I just can’t keep my hands off you,” Sylvain confesses, thinking it’ll make Felix blush like every girl he’s used that line on; the sad thing is this is the time he really means it and Felix is utterly unmoved.

“So? Learn to keep your hands where they are unless I ask for them.”

The same instinct that drives someone to tickle their friends when they explicitly ask to not be touched guides too many of Sylvain’s instincts. Smirking, he lifts Felix’s chin up with his finger.

“That’s no way to talk to someone who’s made you come _twice_ tonight.”

“Do you know how many times I come in a day, hetero?”

_Jesus Christ._

“Goddamn, you jack off _that_ much?”

“I’m a sex worker, idiot,” and when Felix says it, it occurs to Sylvain that again… he’s only one man that has called up Felix.

Lord knows why that bothers him, knowing that he’s a service. Felix has only ever been a service and yet Sylvain found himself being pulled magnetically toward him. That couldn’t be too much of a problem considering Felix has invited him over, fucked him without payment of any kind.

Yeah, actually they have to talk about that. Sylvain is going to go bonkers in funcking yonkers if they don’t hash this shit out.

“So how much do I owe you for tonight?” he opens up with, and Felix is gawking up at him like he’s an ashtray with how he flicks his cigarette at him.

“What are you, stupid?”

“Look, I don’t know if the rate started at the door, or when the sex started, or if it counted the cuddle intermission—”

“_I didn’t do this for pay, cum-for-brains_.”

“Bullshit,” says Sylvain. “You know I’m not into men, so why would you invite me over to fuck?”

Ah, there. There it is. Here is when Felix offers the most super-massively perplexed expression Sylvain’s probably ever witnessed from any human being. Really, Felix doesn’t look as though he’s staring at a human being right now, just some kind of punchline on legs, and it’s not even a good one.

Felix’s gaze washes over him, toe to head, and he flaps his wrist at him mindlessly with the gawk on his face entirely on purpose.

“C’mere,” he says, and of course Sylvain approaches only for Felix to put out his cigarette against his hip with a twist.

“_Dude, fuck!!_”

“You’re a moron,” Felix says finally, voice an empty and sort of terse sound as he twists to sit upright once more, pocketing the half-smoked cigarette into a box of some kind before he tucks it back into the drawer.

Sylvain’s still swatting at the ash on his hip, seething as a little red mark blooms across his skin. That kinda hurt. That was kinda hot. It really mostly hurt though, and Sylvain is cringing as he crawls across the expanse of the bed.

“You’re so violent, what’s that about?”

He stops when he’s hovering right beside Felix again, their bodies never going more than a minute or so without being inexplicably drawn to one another’s again. There’s so many questions Sylvain is dying to ask: what happened to cause all the scars all over your body, why’d you get that tattoo, why phone sex work, are you actually into me?

Sylvain isn’t gay but oh, he wants to know so bad if Felix is really into him.

“The stupidity of others draws my sword to them like a moth to a flame.”

“Fuck, that didn’t sound dramatic or extra at all.”

Felix turns to face Sylvain, squinting super hard at their positions right now. Felix has backed himself up against the headboard now and Sylvain’s crawled up on his hands and knees, soon to find himself up in Felix’s lap. Really, like a dog, this one.

“That stung, y’know,” Sylvain says, eyebrows knitting up.

“Yeah, and you fucking me and calling yourself straight didn’t,” barks the other man, making Sylvain’s eyebrows shoot far up his forehead.

“I’ve told you this! I’ve told you this _multiple_ times!”

“Yeah, and you’re hurting both of us at this rate.”

That’s when Sylvain backs off. That’s when Sylvain gathers himself up on his knees and scoots back, beholding Felix with a different kind of expression now. Does he feel… pressured? Used? What are the words for this emotion? Sylvain feels this way often: pressured, used. He doesn’t often say no to women in the way that he should. How else would he find himself trapped in the throes of three different women on a Tuesday or Thursday? He doesn’t know how to say no.

This time, it’s different. He’s sure that it is. The disappointment and aggravation in Felix’s gear-locked eyebrows, stubbornly set in place, his consistent frown, his frustrating words… 

“Did you invite me here just to fuck me?” Sylvain asks and Felix is rolling his eyes before Sylvain can get the last word out. “Don’t look at me like that, just answer the question. I just wanna make sure you get exactly what you want.”

“Don’t fucking act charitable,” Felix chides.

“If a few quick and easy fucks before I go is all you want, I’m fine with that. Stop expecting it to be something else, though.”

“If I just wanted you to fuck me, why would I give a shit if you’re ‘straight’ or not,” answers Felix. “Riddle me that, shithead.”

“Cause you’ve got this obsession about being right, hell if I know.”

Bottom lip pouting upwards in doubt, confusion, Felix’s head turns to the side a tad and his look is pitying, utterly despondent.

“Wow, you really think that you know _anything_ about me, just because you’ve been inside me. Is that how you are with all your girls?”

Suddenly, Sylvain doesn’t want to argue anymore, but Felix isn’t done.

“I thought maybe you had some decency in you, but the moment you’d come inside me, you got this ego rush to your head, like you used me or something and now you’ve got something on me. Let me be the first to tell you that’s _not_ how it works.”

Felix rushes in, his hands connecting with Sylvain’s shoulders to shove him backwards and pin him to the edge of the bed. Sylvain’s head almost falls off the back. God, he’s entirely naked and not a bit less terrifying for it. That’s what makes Sylvain’s heart start to race. That’s what has him rethinking his choices.

“I let you in. That was a gift. Have you forgotten what kind of pathetic slime you’ve revealed yourself to be to me over and over again?”

The insults aren’t as sexy anymore when they’re spoken like this. Maybe they were never sexy in the first place. Maybe that’s just how Sylvain can accept love. Maybe… Sylvain feels his heart drop into his stomach at the sound of it.

“Please, don’t say those things to me, Felix.”

“Why? So you can fuck with me? Fuck with my head, fuck me and tell me that you’re a straight man?”

“It’s none of your business.”

What is _up_ with him!? Why is Felix forcing this on him? Had Dorothea made some mistake and set him up with a psychopath? Why should it matter so fucking much?

Sylvain feels like he’s going crazy.

“It is when I’m trying to connect with you.”

“I didn’t know what I was expecting when I came here. I thought this was a house call or some shit. I was expecting to pay you _money_.”

“You’re so goddamn stupid.”

“And stop—!” Sylvain grimaces, reaching his hands up to flank Felix’s shoulders, shoving him off as easily as he can when they’re practically on top of each other once more. “Calling me that, stop insulting me when it’s not bedroom talk, alright? It’s _not_ okay of you to do that.”

And yet, Felix doesn’t budge a muscle. Felix is sat on his lap and all of the physical attraction in the world can’t stop the fact that Sylvain feels… achy. Yeah, this too, along with the burn on his hip, _stings_. Felix opens his mouth and Sylvain cuts him off at the pass.

“Y’know, you love to shit talk people but I know why you have this job,” he says. “You don’t know how to be nice. You don’t know how to get close to people without doing this shit, huh?”

Felix’s upper lip snatches upwards as though pulled by a hook, as though he’s snarling. “You watch your mouth.”

“I’m right, aren’t I?” says Sylvain.

“You treat _everyone_ this way and it’s sick,” mutters Felix, smoldering with a very evident ire.

Sylvain tugs him in for a kiss and Felix melts in seconds. His body, once posed in opposition to him, glides into his touch, grinds up into him, and Felix is almost none the wiser when Sylvain pulls their lips apart. Licking up his lips, Sylvain whispers into them gingerly, “you do this to every guy you’re into.”

The slap aimed at Sylvain’s face doesn’t hit. It’s caught in his fist and Felix’s wrist shivers in Sylvain’s grip.

“This isn’t funny,” Sylvain says flatly.

“Let go,” hisses Felix.

“It’s unhealthy.”

“You don’t know anything.”

Sylvain laughs joylessly. “And you pretend you know everything.”

“And so do you, let me go.”

Clenching both of Felix’s wrists in each one of his hands, Sylvain yanks them beside him against the bed, unrelenting to Felix’s pleas. He mutters angrily under his breath, “you can’t treat me like one of your call boys.”

“You _are_ one of my call boys.”

“You’re not on the clock,” Sylvain sneers, “and I’m not on your line. I’m physically here, in front of you, and if you want to make something more out of this, you’ve gotta do it the right way.”

Felix huffs, straining against Sylvain’s grip. “Who says I want anything from you.”

“Why else would you call me here? Why else would Dorothea be chucking dudes at you if you weren’t hungry for a relationship?”

“_Stop_ thinking you know me. Let me _go_!”

“Why else would you be so concerned over whether I call myself gay or not?”

“Cause you’ll be hurting yourself in the long run,” gasps out Felix, wincing as Sylvain tightens his grasp on his wrists. “Sylvain, you’re hurting me.”

It’s then that Sylvain unclenches from around his arms and Felix shudders in place, yanking his arms up to his chest in a brief moment of estranged vulnerability before his faculties return to him, and he lets them down on either side of Sylvain’s head.

“I’m sorry,” Sylvain mutters, “but I gotta figure this thing out.”

Pouting almost, Felix seems sorry without saying so, his eyes glassy and his nose scrunched up. His eyes avert themselves.

“I’m just trying to help you.”

“Why don’t you let _me_ help _you_?”

“Did you hit your fucking head?” Felix spits. “Why would you want to do that?”

“Maybe cause I can see you’ve got issues.”

“Like you don’t.”

“Didn’t say that I didn’t,” Sylvain smooths over. “But if I’m not a customer anymore, you can’t treat me like one.”

Felix scowls.

“Yeah,” Sylvain says in a nod, responsive to Felix’s face. “_Even_ if that’s the only way you know how to treat people.”

“Then don’t treat me like one of your girls.”

“Hey, one thing at a time, right?” says Sylvain, smiling something pretty and fake and Felix’s eyes float between the two of them. Following his pupils, Sylvain can almost sense what’s on the other man’s mind; he can smell it in the air.

Felix's voice slips out of him slackly, privately, “before we… get to talking about all that—”

“You wanna go again?”

“Yes, please.”

Sylvain sits up, yanking his dick back out as he blows a tussock of bright red hair from out of his face. “Good, cause you stressed me out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, thank you so much for your continued support!


	7. Chapter 7

It’s amazing that it took the third time. The third time’s the charm after all. It’s not until the third go around that there is dysfunction. Sylvain isn’t one for counting, but really, his hook-ups go far worse than this. In that regard, he shouldn’t be complaining. This is just a new kind of bad, so sue him. He’s not used to it yet. In the same positions they’d been posed in, Felix is hovering over Sylvain like a creature ready to rend his neck from his shoulders (with just about as much rage). Felix had slicked himself up without Sylvain’s help, eyes boring holes into Sylvain’s body all the while, his irises practically lasering a death threat into his pectorals for being so… _ineffectual._

Was it petty of Sylvain? Probably, the way that he laid back languidly, taking in the sight of Felix slipping his fingers inside of himself, stretching and agonizingly avoiding Sylvain’s own eyes as he did so. It was hot, yeah, but maybe Sylvain’s just waiting for his own pleasure to start again. He’s not exactly looking to do Felix any fun favors, especially not with that whole… everything that just happened. The streaking ache from his hip gave Sylvain something to _really_ bite his lip over. The slut in his lap was only getting started.

“You good?” Sylvain says, clipped, not a question but a barb.

Felix looks down over his nose at him. “Not remotely.”

“That’s fine,” Sylvain says, slapping his lap impatiently. “You didn’t wanna talk.”

“I do, just not now.”

“Is this how you ruin _all_ your relationships?” purrs Sylvain, voice curled and too sensual for such an unacceptably low blow.

His dick is grabbed, pinched between two drippy fingers. “Be useful,” Felix says.

“I’m hard, aren’t I?” You know, as if that’s the only thing Sylvain has to do is sit there and be pretty and hard.

As it turns out, that’s not far from the mark. This being the third go round, the second of which involves Sylvain’s cock in his ass, Felix stretches on over him with ease, his body rattling every second of the way down. It’s soon that Felix bottoms out, his legs flanking each side of Sylvain’s hips until they’re somewhat shivering, not on purpose but from the strain. From this vantage point, Sylvain’s delivered a front row view of every mark and blemish adorning Felix’s skin. Little bugs in his brain cry at him to properly run his fingers down and over every single one, kiss them and know them.

The pinch in his hip, the ache in his dick tells him to buck his pelvis up, so he does. Sylvain’s cock has a far louder voice than his brain consistently.

Felix huffs out. “Wasn’t ready.”

“Feels like it to me,” Sylvain mutters, gruffly, fingers curling around to poke and prod and sure enough he’s able to slip a finger inside in addition to his cock; Felix’s own relocate to Sylvain’s carotid.

“Lay there and just let me take you.” _Yeah, like a pill not a person, cause that’s what Sylvain is._

Eyes arcing around, Sylvain lets Felix do this shit, he guesses, the whole… squeezing his neck thing. And he’s light-headed now. It should be hotter. Sylvain’s mostly bored by his antagonism.

Who’s though? Both. Sylvain doesn’t take pleasure in being pissy and really Felix is something abominable right now.

Choking was never Sylvain’s thing. Now that it’s somewhat happening, Sylvain is more acutely aware of that then he would’ve been otherwise. Had the circumstances been different, he might be fawning, dying to have Felix’s hands all over him, smothering him and suffocating him. As it stands, it feels hyper-aggressive and offensive.

That’s why Sylvain feels little sympathy when he bucks his hips up again. Felix puffs out a breath and Sylvain’s pride makes itself apparent when the thought blitzes through his skull that Felix didn’t come apart quick enough, didn’t moan and spread thin in record time. Call him a narcissist for thinking his dick was more than capable, or maybe just call it an established history.

But here Sylvain goes, withstanding the buzzing in his head to park his hands to Felix’s waist to get a move on. Whatever _time_ Felix is taking is irrelevant to him. If Felix wants to use him, he can use Felix, plain and simple. His cock ramming into Felix’s walls has him growling.

_Growling?_ Yes, Felix sounded downright animal for a fragment of a second and both sets of thumbs bear down on the sides of Sylvain’s throat until he’s anxious about his blood flow. This is only making him angry. Maybe that’s the purpose. Maybe these are buttons.

“M’kay,” Sylvain rasps. “Enough of that.”

Sylvain hadn’t really noticed that he hadn’t explicitly said no until then, wondering why Felix was continuing to squeeze and strangle gently when Sylvain was obviously not into it. This thought clears up the moment Felix plucks his hands back, unfogging his mind. Well, duh.

Felix seems disappointed in the cessation, nursing his cock with a couple lazy tugs as he bounces. His eyes won’t meet Sylvain’s now and Sylvain has to know… _is he sulking?_

Pouty because Sylvain won’t let him choke him out or something? Sylvain wants to ask. He’s dying to ask, but there’s something weirdly hot about Felix’s spurned, bashful eyes peering down at himself, stroking at himself and bobbing his body as if Sylvain really isn’t there, as if Sylvain really just is an item.

This strange bubble forms and Sylvain is very anxious not to see it pop, so he sits there. Sylvain doesn’t say a word, merely observes and Felix does it all on his own. The room’s vacant of noise but Felix’s aborted sighs and soughs, and the slap of his body dropping onto Sylvain’s. His legs shiver with each collapse. Sylvain watches the jiggle of his thighs, the spasm of his hips and the way his back thunders into an arch. Felix’s fist sluggishly pumps at himself. His other hand’s fixed to Sylvain’s groin, clenching and pulling at the hairs that curl there.

Which—_ow_, but in favor of watching Felix work it out, he mutes and bites back his own discomfort, careful not to break whatever fantasy he’s in.

Nearly feeling like a third party to his own intercourse, Sylvain hisses into his lips. This is like every POV porno he’s ever seen, only… it’s a man. It’s a man and really, Sylvain has to pretend like the hottest thing about it isn’t the way Felix touches himself, touches his own cock. He takes in a deep breath, eyes closing.

Detached enough that Sylvain can try and think about something else, Sylvain fails to picture a woman in Felix’s stead, underscoring all of his deepest fears in a single go. His eyebrows furrow. No amount of trying to picture Dorothea’s ass around him is doing him any favors but threatening to drain all the blood from his cock. Anxiously, Sylvain rolls his hips into Felix’s drop, their bodies moving like a wave together and Felix’s little “_oh god_” has Sylvain’s dick twitching.

_Do that again,_ he thinks, chasing that sound with his own thrusts up, listening in with his eyes shut tight as Felix gasps more.

Oh, it’s good. Sylvain finds that nothing he could possibly try to think of could compare, except maybe the imagined times they’ve had together. Their pace speeds up. Felix has both hands splayed against Sylvain’s ribs. Sylvain blinks his eyes open carefully as if cautious to startle Felix, as if he’s not allowed to actually sneak a peek, and Felix is utterly out of it.

_Holy shit._

Felix has both eyes screwed shut with concentration, with dizzying pleasure and it occurs to Sylvain that this is the first time he’s seen Felix getting fucked. Sylvain has been behind him, face buried in his shoulder or his ass. Now that Felix is fully visible, body jostling and collapsing into his with abandon, viciously, _completely_, Sylvain feels his ghost rise into his throat. It’s divine.

It shouldn’t be so fucking hot, being treated like an item, like an outsider. Maybe that isn’t exactly what is doing it for Sylvain, either. Cautiously watching, his eyes bouncing with the movement, Sylvain finds he’s… really turned on by seeing this—how Felix’s shapely, scarred, tight thighs drop his body onto Sylvain’s so roughly, how Felix’s spine writhes in ecstasy every time Sylvain’s cock reaches depths further inside… 

Fucking men is hot, _but watching men get fucked?_ Sylvain’s eyes are practically cordiform in shape.

The searing pink mark stretching across his hip be damned, Sylvain jumps his hips again. Felix cries out brokenly and Sylvain slides a hand down to grip at him, pump his cock for him and watch him unfurl.

“Yes, _like that_,” instructs Felix—_praises_ more like and Sylvain fists his length faster.

This angle’s good for Sylvain’s arm. He can jack off Felix just as well as he could himself. His thrusting turns punishing. Felix begs for it harder, _harder_ and Sylvain sighs contentedly to himself, “you’re such a whore,” and Felix scowls.

Face bunched up in distressing pleasure, Felix says, “at least I’m honest.”

Ouch, back to this, huh? Well, Sylvain’s not interested in having his boner killed just seconds before he comes, so he reaches one hand up to smother the lower half of Felix’s face. Thumb to jawbone, fingers to cheek, Sylvain squeezes his palm over Felix’s mouth, shutting him up. It’s a tad aggressive. Felix’s eyes creep open and Sylvain expects to find some hatred in there.

Felix moans agonizingly into Sylvain’s hand, muffled and desperate, and comes with a messy jerk. His eyes are glassy and it gouges Sylvain’s heart.

Sylvain does not often possess the forethought to _not_ come inside, ever the man to do first and think later; a great number of his brain cells can be found in his cock, after all. In this case, he’s already licked Felix clean and has little desire to do him the service again. However… as Felix convulses on his lap, eyelids fluttering in pleasant distress—

_Oh my god—_

Slathering Sylvain’s first fist with cum, Felix sputters into his second and appears to twitch in time with Sylvain emptying out, warm and leaky inside him. Vaguely, Sylvain finds himself thinking, _not this again_ with the same level of disdain you’d feel when finding out your dog tracked mud in the house again.

If only Sylvain could stop tracking cum inside the Felix. It’s not like the guy needs any more excuses to wring sex out of him, or excuses to complain.

As they both pant up strangled, aborted breaths, loosely hanging onto one another, Sylvain cautiously unpeels his palm from Felix’s mouth with the thought in mind that Felix has a point.

He’s goddamn hot and has a point but fuck if Sylvain isn’t going to be testy anyways. Cigarettes hurt.

“You came inside again.”

Sylvain knows he did. Sylvain drips his palm from off of his face. “Sorry.” And really, Felix doesn’t seem to care as much as he probably should. Who knows what that means.

A frightful ringing sound carries itself through the air like an ambulance, demanding their attention even through the echoing end of their orgasms. Their panting quiets down, their eyes focused. Sylvain slides against the bed, thinking to himself that he’s much closer to Felix’s phone sat at the bedside table than Felix is. He should do him this solid, if he can bother to wriggle close enough to the edge of the bed to reach. Felix himself is doing a shoddy job at pulling himself off of Sylvain’s hips. Even as Sylvain’s dick softens itself inside of him, Felix’s fucked out knees are as good as worthless. His thighs don’t move like they’re supposed to. He rather collapses like a house of cards into the sheets, leaking all over shamelessly. Sylvain sits up to witness.

Huh. Hot.

Sylvain’s cock spasms once more weakly at the sight of Felix’s body laid out all fatigued and worn, Sylvain’s cum oozing out of him. He winces at how much it strikes him, how _marked_ Felix looks.

“Could you get me that,” Felix says, his arm flailing up and his wrist rotating about slackly.

And it’s funny to Sylvain, watching how raggedly Felix puppeteers his own faded muscles. His knees slide to the side and his wrist hangs lopsided and tired, awaiting the favor. Sylvain comes to the conclusion that he’s not as angry as he once was and he plucks a few tissues up from the bedside table first, ridding his fist of Felix’s essence.

The thought crosses Sylvain’s mind momentarily, to lean long across the bed and clean Felix off nice and slow like before—wipe off his stomach and kiss in whispers down it. There’s something different about Felix that brings a romantic out in Sylvain, the real life kind of romantic. Not the liar, the heartbreaker, the rancorous thing so many women have fallen victim to. Felix makes him want to be kind.

Then, Sylvain seizes Felix’s phone and spots a familiar name sat on the screen: _Miklan._

Sylvain drops the phone like it scalded his hand. It sorta did. His fingers ache.

…

It’s a day or two when Felix won’t call anymore, a day or two when Sylvain stops feeling bile and rot in his throat.

For _what_, exactly? Sylvain can only draw conclusions. Sylvain has never been particularly good at either things, at creating art or creating his own happiness and yet he sees fit to try anyways. The concept doesn’t happen to him until Dorothea’s dialing him up, and he forgets that she’s got an agenda of her own and that she’s friends with Felix, because he’s forgotten all of Felix’s good traits and the fact that he has friends at all.

Wild of him to get so nasty about a guy he refuses to say he likes, but, _okay._

Sylvain is steady browsing the internet, not in search of porn for once but in fact gay clubs near him, because if he can’t have Felix he might as well find a replacement. Any man will do, because Sylvain is in denial of of so many things at once. His head feels like a carnival game. Regardless of what it all means, of what his heart wants and what his dick responds to, Sylvain doesn’t want to talk about it and doesn’t want to fortune a cure. It’s fine to be sick. It’s fine to be weird, to be broken and confused. It’s better than talking, somehow. He’s been broken all his life. It’s better than being normal and _opening up—_

Dorothea’s voice is harsh on his drum, “why are you fucking this up?” And he really cannot fathom why _this_ is the nastiest she’s ever been with him. What stake does she even have in this? 

White screen from the Google results page brightening up Sylvain’s face, painting pictures against his skin, Sylvain raps his thumb against the speaker button and lets Dorothea speak her piece.

“Sylvain, what even happened between you and Felix?”

“He told you, probably,” he says.

“I want to hear your side,” she announces, voice _almost_ soft until, “because I need a first person perspective on just how selfish and hypocritical you are.”

Wiping his mouth, fixing his fingers around his chin in vexation, Sylvain’s throat clears and he settles himself in his seat before leaning, extra super close to the phone.

“How’s this for perspective? Felix is fucking _my brother._”

“He is not fucking your brother,” says Dorothea flatly. “His number was in his phone.”

“His number is in his phone,” Sylvain parrots, as if that in and of itself is the damning proof enough.

“Sylvain, they aren’t fucking.”

A roll of the eyes here, a fantasy that Dorothea is naked while chatting him up there. There are so many ways Sylvain is handling this completely adult conversation, and being an adult is not one of them. “Sure, phone sex doesn’t count,” he gripes.

“_No_, you ass,” cusses Dorothea. She sounds like she could just spit on him. “Miklan is your brother’s name, correct?”

“Yeah.”

“Miklan’s number was in Felix’s phone because he knew Felix’s brother. That’s the only reason. The fact that _I_ had to call you up and tell you that is pathetic. Do you know how hard I worked to get you two together only for you to go and blow it for yourself?”

Ogling a black and pink website with flashing gifs, advertising some gay strip club, Sylvain’s horribly out of place. The juxtaposition of the rapturous lights, the sexual energy showcased in the site’s banner and the disgruntled set of Sylvain’s jaw is almost comic in nature. It’d be funnier, Sylvain thinks, if he wasn’t feeling cheated and lied to.

By fucking who, really? He wonders it and realizes, it’s everyone. It’s _everyone_ to do with this and he doesn’t care how unfair it seems.

“You worked me over to get your friend laid, to get _Felix_ a boyfriend, because you’re _Felix’s_ friend. Not mine. You’re real nice, Dorothea, but don’t try and spin this to be something that it isn’t.”

One by one, Sylvain slices at the rope. He’ll destroy this bridge between them before long.

Dorothea sighs a pitying noise on the other end of the line and Sylvain stuffs his palms with his crown.

“Look at you,” she starts in with, not particularly concerned with proving his theory wrong, which is a fact he’s anxious to notice. “Getting all huffy and hurt when nothing’s even happened to you. I don’t know who your brother is but to my knowledge, Felix had no idea you two were related. From what I understand, Miklan’s only in contact with Felix because he used to date his brother.”

“Used to date him before what?”

“Used to date his brother before he died.”

A beat. Sylvain feels a weight on his chest.

Sylvain cranes his neck back, yanking his skull from up out of his hands so he can glare down at his cellphone, regarding himself and this horrid piece of technology as two equally broken things. The new crack in the screen from tossing it at the wall last night is glowering back at him. Phones can be replaced. Hurtful things can’t be undone.

Really, how much did Sylvain know about Felix before growing possessive over him and who he spoke to, his job and who he fucked? Sylvain can tell himself that it’s the mixture of his brother in all this: a man who ruins every goddamn thing he touches. Maybe Sylvain just didn’t want things to get even more complicated. Is he gay? How does he feel about Felix beyond the physical level? How will his parents handle that? How will he come around to explaining these bills when the time comes?

Pinching his lips up between his incisors, Sylvain thinks back to Felix’s many scars: old, faded, yet still startlingly pink against his pale body. The question comes curiously, “how did he die?”

“I don’t know that,” Dorothea sneers, some attitude shining through. “That doesn’t matter and it isn’t your business. You’re too busy trying to make yourself a victim over there to see what you went and did wrong.”

What _did_ he do wrong? Sylvain thinks he knows… storming out of Felix’s house with far from any explanation, leaving the sad little twink to rot on his bedspread with too much of Sylvain’s semen bleeding out of him to be much use in stopping him, lest he make a mess everywhere. The conversation was little: a lot of one-sided questions from Felix’s end while Sylvain collected up his clothes, not even putting them on his body before evacuating the home.

In hindsight, the whole scene is a blur of hectic questions, of sweaty clothes gathering and of trying to find his shoes—stomaching sliding them onto his feet without socks and then finding his socks nearby the hallway to the bathroom.

Abandoning them anyways as he marches to his car. Abandoning all reasonable thought as he drives back to home and loneliness, back to porn and bullshit. Back to this, a computer screen and a telephone.

Closing his eyes, Sylvain sighs. Felix’s face… he can’t recall it in perfect clarity but he can recall the feeling it gave him in the pit of his belly: like he’d just witnessed an animal bear its stomach in vulnerability only to get it kicked in. Disgusted with himself, Sylvain rotates his thumbs into his eyes, seeing colors until he says, “no, I know what I did wrong.”

“Care to explain?” Dorothea offers.

His thumb taps at his phone screen, scrolling through his call log to see just how many missed calls from Felix. They aren’t all at once, spread out between last night and today. Not a scary amount. Not an obsessive amount. Just enough for Sylvain to feel guilty all over for avoiding communication. Not like Felix is much better. No voicemails have been left. Probably not sure what he wants to say either but… knows something should be said anyways.

Maybe he knows what it is that freaked Sylvain out. If Dorothea’s explaining this out to him, he no doubt knows now. Who knows when that got explained. Does _Miklan_ know about all of this?

God, fuck, Sylvain hates every thought in his head right now. Hates the complication that his family brings. Hates the small world this is. Hates that people know one another.

Frowning, shoving his phone across the desk, he mutters barely audibly and Dorothea says, “I can’t hear you but if you know, then you can apologize for it.”

Dorothea says nothing else and Sylvain lets his eyes trail across every inch of skin on the male stripper in this website banner, taking in the muscles and definition of his hips. His chest catches on something, something like indecision.

“I guess I need to think long and hard about what exactly I’m running from,” he says. “Some things are worse than others. Some things are easier or harder to hide.”

Sylvain flips his fingers through his contacts, brushing by so many names, so many women, enough that their names can be diluted down to Britney 1, Britney 2, Britney at the beach, Brittany with a new spelling, that one who sucked him off behind an Arby’s, a girl he owes $20 to, a girl with fat tits, a girl that can suck him off right, a girl who’s not great but if you’re free on a Thursday…

And who even calls or texts him anymore?

And who has _him_ in their phone as anything but _whore_, _that guy who can’t be trusted_, _that guy who got me off and then sped off to his next date_.

Do any of them matter? For all of their beauty and charm and skill in riding his cock for an hour without breaking a sweat, do they matter to him? Can Sylvain recall any by face and not body?

Do any have scars that he thinks on as heavily as Felix’s?

“I don’t think I’m used to giving a shit about people.”

Sylvain doesn’t notice that Dorothea’s long since hung up. Not at least until he hears his phone go off.

You can fancy a guess who’s calling him.

“Hey,” he greets.

“We need to talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its been a month but im back. ive been in between jobs so more than ever, thank you guys so much for your continued love!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember me? i think this is the second to last chapter, and i mean it this time. i think our saga is coming to an end. thank you all for coming on this journey with me!

“What about?”

The cadence in Miklan’s voice sounds sated, worn, something tempered and less wrathful than Sylvain is used to taking it. If he were crazy or perhaps in the mood to listen a little closer, he might say that Miklan sounds… apologetic. All Sylvain can tell is that he’s just a tad different, some sort of Miklan _to the left_ when he says, “your little boy problem.”

And Sylvain doesn’t know what to make of the statement. It’s a wild oversimplification of the issue at hand and frankly, he isn’t sure he has it in him to clarify it further. What is there to say? He and Felix are not dating. He and Felix are not even compatible in that department, what with Sylvain being emphatically _straight_ and all.

Sylvain takes to pinching his thumb and forefinger between his eyes.

…but, if that’s something they can talk about—

“He called me up and sounded pissed as hell. You’ve got some nerve.”

Miklan’s fighting to put that fire in his throat, or so Sylvain is inspired to think. There’s a whip crack in every sound his brother makes. There’s danger and there’s anger, _so_ much fucking anger, and this? This is something foreign. It’s been a long couple of summers since the last time Sylvain’s heard pity in his brother’s scratched up throat, torn up by tobacco and all manner of trauma. Really, Sylvain doesn’t know how to process it.

Doesn’t _want_ to process it.

Wants to be allowed to hate him, not begrudgingly take this phone call. Not with how he responded to their last conversation. What a fuckup this guy is.

“So,” Sylvain starts, sucking his teeth with a squeaky click of the tongue. “Maybe you’ll talk to me now and not hang up the phone?”

“I had shit to do,” Miklan fibs, Sylvain knows.

“Sure you did.”

“Fuck you, I didn’t want to talk about him.”

So, Sylvain is reminded. “Him?” echoes Sylvain, getting the gist of it from what he already knows of the situation: that boy Miklan hadn’t wanted Sylvain to mention. He was someone special, wasn’t he?

He was Felix’s brother, _wasn’t he?_

“You get to know now, I guess,” grouses Miklan, “since you want to ruin a good thing over it.”

What ‘_good thing_’ could he mean? Sylvain and Felix? Sylvain swipes his hand over his mouth and leans back in his rolling chair. The squeak of it punctuates his pause. His fingernails vibrate against his stubble. He blinks slowly, eyes surveying the porn star in the poster beside his bedside table. Sylvain wouldn’t know a good thing if it called him up and called him over. Wouldn’t know a good thing if it knew how to grind into his tongue just right and ride him for days.

What would Miklan of all people know about a good thing?

“Just… what do you think even happened?” Sylvain gripes. “And what do you care? When have you _ever_ cared?”

“I didn’t know that you were gay, Sylv.”

The sentence comes out exasperated. The shortened name puts an anvil in the pit of Sylvain’s stomach. Sylvain winces and tastes metal, _could_ fight the label and throw a fit no bigger than his own fist into Miklan’s face but… he just says, “you wouldn’t let me—just… let me talk to you.”

“You should’ve fought harder, idiot. How much of a prick do you think I am?”

“You’re a user and an abuser, Mik. What the _fuck_ am I supposed to say to that?”

The call goes static and silent. Miklan does not even breathe. Good.

“How much of a prick do I think _you_ are? A fucking lot, okay?” Sylvain huffs into the receiver. “Don’t say that shit to me. Don’t act like I’m in the wrong. Don’t fucking… make me feel like I’m stupid for not realizing how ‘obviously cool with it’ you’d be if you found out what I am. Don’t do that shit to me.”

“…Fuck, Sylvain.” 

Miklan’s sighing and Sylvain can picture him tossing a few scarred fingers back through his greasy mullet, cigarette in his palm. It’s been years since he last saw him, but some things never change. Surely this is no different.

“I wouldn’t…” Miklan cusses out of the side of his mouth near inaudibly. “I wouldn’t push you away like they did me, alright? Just, have some fucking sense about that at least. I’m a lot of things but I’m not a homophobe.”

“Could’ve fooled me, Mik. For all intents and purposes, I thought you were before you came out and got kicked out.”

“Yeah, well, I was an angry kid.”

_Still are_, Sylvain thinks eloquently. But that’s neither here nor there. It seems Sylvain’s coming out after all, and to him of all people. What a fucking joke.

Before he knows it, he’s splaying his body out on the bed like a butchered bull, like a dissected frog, a car ready to be dismantled, ready to be thrown out. Miklan doesn’t deserve to know what’s inside of him. It just so happens that things are panning out this way.

“You called me gay because I bought a _Volkswagon_, Mik.”

“And now look at you, starshine. _You fuckin’ are_.”

“We’re going in circles,” says Sylvain. “Why do you and Felix know each other? How did he and I never know each other?”

“I always told you to piss off and die, didn’t I?” And Miklan says it with such nonchalance. Sylvain can’t tell if it’s because he feels no shame or, he knows not to sugarcoat. Not like it’d do any good to hide from who he was or what he did. Sylvain will give the benefit of the doubt and say it’s the latter. “I didn’t want you coming to his house. I didn’t want _anyone_ from my family to be over there, ruin everything. Glenn was…”

Sylvain notices the moment Glenn’s name comes out of Miklan’s mouth, some emotion or other is invoked—puts a stopper in Miklan’s mouth and he’s probably rethinking some words. He’s mulling it over, Sylvain guesses, before growling into the receiver again.

“The one good thing in my life that you couldn’t have.”

_Figures_, Sylvain thinks.

“So no, you never knew each other, and I never let you see him. Not Glenn, not Felix. I never even hung out with Felix. He was just there. Glenn was my…”

“Got it,” Sylvain interrupts. “So, you’re telling me you don’t see Felix on the sly? Maybe try and recreate some shit you once had?”

“No, you fucking freak,” Miklan barks. “Why the fuck would I settle for his brother? He’s just a few years my junior but he feels like a child to me. Probably always will cause he’s just Glenn’s brother to me. I’ve got a boyfriend of my own. I don’t need him _or_ his services. Not like you who’s so deep in the closet that this is his desperate attempt at scratching some itch. What, is Brazzers and Tinder not doing it for you anymore?”

What a swing, and it hits.

How dare Miklan be out there and happy, settled down with some boy and in love no doubt. Who says he deserves that? Deserves that while Sylvain’s choking on his own miserable claustrophobia, stuck inside a closet he’s repeatedly locked himself into.

“I’m happy for you,” says Sylvain, serenely.

“Shut the fuck up,” Miklan slams.

Curling up on his side, phone entirely too warm and foggy against his ear, Sylvain gathers his thoughts. He finds out that what he wants to say is a few miles away from their current conversation. He doesn’t have a segue, he just has his heart on his sleeve when he says, “I don’t know what to tell mom and dad.”

“Fucking nothing,” Miklan says. “You don’t need to say a thing.” _No hesitation._

“They’re gonna find out.”

“And you cross that bridge when you get there. Look: think of it this way. You need to get out of their pocket any-fucking-ways and get some goddamn independence. Grow some fucking balls. You may think they’ll treat you different than me ‘cause you’ve always been their smiling prodigy, their little favorite, boy wonder with the stars in his eyes, but they’ll chew you up and tell you who to be and you won’t get out alive.”

Miklan seethes it out between his teeth: “I say you get the _fuck_ out while you can.”

Sylvain’s peering over at the pillows. He remarks to himself only that he’s got such a king-sized bed for such a motley crew of one night stands, never meaningful, never satisfying. Recalling the way his heart pounds, blood quickens at the sight of Felix his dom, his master, his rock as he’s holding him down, fucking himself on his cock, he knows he’s never felt this rush before. There’s never been any replacement for it. This bed has space for two human beings and he’s never even been one with someone else in it.

Being in bed with a man makes something human out of Sylvain and his hungry monster, and maybe that’s why he’s so awful: he’s negligent of this.

Maybe that’s why _Miklan_ was so awful. A lot happens when your own flesh and blood tells you you aren’t worth dirt, aren’t acceptable, aren’t _right._

This change uproots everything. Sylvain regards Miklan’s words with as much respect as he can, filtering out the parts that sting until he’s left with the raw advice: _get away from them._

Swallowing hard, Sylvain says, “you said you’ve got a boyfriend?”

Not like it really matters. Or maybe it does. Sylvain is chewing on his lip when Miklan’s voice dips into a lower, relaxing register. More chill, maybe?

“Yeah,” he confirms.

“What’s his name?” says Sylvain.

And Sylvain expects Miklan to bitch, to ask why, to throw out names, insults and phrases, and he just mutters, “Chris,” with ample fondness, as though he’s talking about a pet or a song or a movie—something he loves a lot.

It’s a tone he’s never heard Miklan make. Sylvain wonders if Felix’s name comes out just as lovely in his own voice.

“Did it make you happier?” he asks. “To be honest with yourself?”

The answer is easy. Sylvain already knows. It’s crystal clear, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t yearn to hear it said. There’s just something bizarre and nigh liminal about hearing Miklan’s voice rasp in something softer, kinder when he says, “yeah… fuck yeah, actually.”

And then he pauses to go, “don’t be a fucking pussy about it, alright?”

Sylvain opens his mouth to speak and—

“And fucking call Felix back. I felt like a right dickhead for being the subject of conversation in the first place.” Miklan grumbles and the sound of a potato chip bag rustling echoes beyond the receiver. “All I’d wanted to do was ask if he’d visited the grave yet.”

Frowning, Sylvain wonders if he’s even allowed to ask. He picks at his scalp and exhales, “how’d he die?”

Miklan snorts and says, “car accident.”

_Yeowch._ Sylvain bites his knuckle. Does that mean… ?

“Felix was in the car,” confirms Miklan, and all the pieces fall into place. _The scars._ “So, don’t be flippant about it with him.”

“Like I would be,” Sylvain mumbles.

“Just be normal,” Miklan insists, voice bordering on exhaustion. “Make it easier on the both of you.”

“Since when do you care,” says Sylvain, spitting up a thought he’d masticated on prior, and Miklan coughs out something resembling a laugh.

“What’s it to you?”

… 

Sylvain gives it another day. Is that really what he should’ve done? He can’t be sure. From Felix’s perspective, probably not. It’s just been one more day that Sylvain’s ghosted him, left him on read, but Sylvain needed the space. The drama of it all (even self-imposed) had him drawn and worn. Felix’s cell is unresponsive. That means he’ll pay to reach him.

He’s not stupid—Felix _wants_ him to pay. It’s the perfect gambit. Sylvain has it to spare so he’ll play this game, the same one they’ve been playing all along.

It’s recompense for the emotional stress. Sylvain can agree with that. He’s dialing up extension *95 with one hand and pulling a Wal-Mart pizza out of the oven with the other. Oven mitt in hand, of course. He’s almost expecting Felix to blow him off again, not answer the number. He can tell who it is, right? Maybe he’ll treat him like a stranger. That might be kind of hot.

Sylvain blows some steam from the pizza pie. That might be sexy, especially if this helps _Felix_ to blow off some steam, be mean to him for a bit, dominate him for a while.

_Is he trying to apologize or get the nut out?_

God, Sylvain’s always trying to do both.

Anxiously walking holes into his kitchen tile, Sylvain feels a verifiably endless window of time pass him by as the phone rings out. Is Felix letting it ring, not even bothering to hit ignore?

And then—“name and kink.”

Square one sounds the same. Sylvain is stood in his kitchen, leaned up against the fridge. Some magnets press into his back. He thinks of what to say, how to answer.

“…Hello?”

Sylvain’s mouth is dry. “Felix.”

He can hear crackling, an intake of breath. He forces his words out before he can get cut off: “I made a mistake.”

“You did,” answers Felix, voice as anchor deep and irony as ever. “You have a minute to think about it?”

“I took some time,” Sylvain says, rubbing his neck, ogling his steadily cooling dinner and remembering their first meeting. There must be something Pavlovian about him baking this tonight. “I have some things I wanted to say.”

Felix takes his time. It’s clear that he’s doing something or other on the other line, whether it’s walking around his house, going about some chores, getting dressed, getting _un_dressed… and he mumbles as if he’s not even meaning for Sylvain to hear it, “well, you’re paying to do it so get it out of the way.”

In almost a reflection of his own conversation with Miklan, Sylvain can’t help but think Felix sounds… better than he’d assume. Perhaps all he needed was a few days to get the rage out, too. Time really does good things when it’s used in the right ways. Sylvain won’t complain, though. If Felix is able and ready to listen, that’s a plus. That’s doing one better than Sylvain, who hadn’t let Felix get a word in before he leapt out the door.

Funny, that’s what his brother did to him.

How the world keeps on turning.

“I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you. I didn’t know how you could’ve known my brother. I didn’t even… _you_ didn’t even know he was my brother. It was just… a bad situation all around. It was strange, and I can say that I really didn’t… make it any better.”

These are all true things. This is a great start to an apology, and he can tell because he hasn’t been interrupted during it yet. …_yet!_ There’s still time to fuck it up.

Sylvain opens up the silverware drawer and almost nicks his fingers against the pizza cutter. Well, there it is. Bumping the drawer shut with his hip, Sylvain takes to cutting some slices out, finding it’s easier to put his words together with something going on, something in his hands, something to fiddle with. The ADHD demands it of him.

“My brother’s a goddamn shithead. He’s made my life a living hell and as much as he likes to say that I ruin things for him, he ruined a whole load of things for me. It was weird to be close to someone who didn’t know that.”

He digs the cutter in deeper.

“I figured this was him ruining something for me again.”

The silence isn’t long, and Felix’s voice sounds anything but vacant when he says, “I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah,” agrees Sylvain, “you couldn’t have known any of that.” _That’s why it’s not your fault._

The scent of pepperoni and mushrooms lingering in his nose, Sylvain thinks to himself how lonesome it is to have this whole thing to himself and no one to share it with. He might know a boy who’d care to have some, but… maybe not with his part-time job. He’s likely sick to death of the shit. Sylvain would be.

He burns his finger on a glob of melty hot cheese and Sylvain nurses the burn with his tongue, pouting as he sucks at the end of his finger. Then he says, “that’s why I’m sorry.”

Surprisingly silent, Felix seems to only sigh on the other line and Sylvain’s imagining him on some kind of kingly throne, tilting his head with indifference and peering down at poor little Sylvain in all his contrition. Surely, that’s how he feels.

“You can say it all you want,” Felix contends, “but you can’t make me believe that you’re sorry.”

This is where Sylvain would consider the possibility that really, he isn’t. He fakes a lot to himself, wonders where his true emotions lie, wonders whether he possesses them at all. It’s here that Sylvain thinks to himself that he’s been wandering into a wall for weeks now. They’d had a good chance to make something more of this and he squandered it all.

Maybe it wasn’t for nothing, especially since it brought out some ugly in Felix that he’d rather see now than later. It should be enough to scare off most anyone else, but Sylvain fancies himself the exception. So what if Felix is a little crazy? Sylvain can be that way. Sylvain _is_ a little crazy.

They’ve both got their idiosyncrasies.

“What if I told you I can?” Sylvain says, voice turning to velvet—like water turning to wine, and Felix takes a sip.

“I’d ask you to clarify.”

Sylvain still needs his dinner to cool. He has time to spare. He straddles a dining room chair, sitting backwards as he leans his face against the back of it. His voice drips with longing as he says, “I wanna get you off.”

“You know how many times I’ve gotten off today?” Felix snaps. “I’ve told you before, sex is my job. Sex is what I do. How can you offer me something I get all the time, every day?”

“No one services you,” Sylvain says smoothly. “If I were there, I’d get down on my knees for you.”

There’s a pause, and then, “I’m a dom. All my clients serve me.”

“They’re your clients. You serve _them._” Sylvain scoffs. “C’mon, don’t get pedantic. It’s your job to be in control. It’s what you’re paid to do. If I were there, I’d pull down your fly and… put my mouth all over you.”

Either he’s anxious or shy, but Sylvain’s voice wavers as he gets the words out. Really, the most he’s ever done with another man’s cock, with _Felix’s_ cock is stroke it while he’s in the heat of intercourse. He’s never touched it when he’s not close to orgasm himself. He’s never touched it with his mouth either. It’s a step in some direction. Felix seems to notice by the way he goes, “hah,” and then says, “you wouldn’t know what to do.”

“Sure I would,” says Sylvain. “I have a dick, I know what it likes.”

Felix’s cadence starts to pair well with Sylvain’s across the line, matching him in tone as he breathes out, “tell me what it likes then.”

Chuckling some, Sylvain starts with, “it likes it when the girl’s hollowing her cheeks out, remembering to use her tongue even when she’s throating it.” He smirks lazily. “It likes it when she shoves it to the back of her throat and hums.”

“Maybe don’t mention a girl when you’re trying to dirty talk me,” Felix drones.

“Well, I don’t have a frame of reference for a dude doing it.” Sylvain winks even if Felix can’t see it. “At least not yet.”

Then, all of a sudden—“don’t touch yourself.”

“Hm?” goes Sylvain, head plucking up from the chair in the same manner a dog does when it hears something suspect at the front door.

“If you’re really sorry, get me off.” A ghost of Felix’s authoritative flare is shoved inside, but he sounds nothing but hopelessly eager to be wrecked. Sylvain’s heard the tone. His heart beats faster when he recognizes it. “Don’t do this for yourself.”

“I won’t,” Sylvain says, adjusting his pants as his cock strains against it.

And really, he won’t. It’s somewhat touching, learning to be less selfish, learning to give more. Sylvain licks his chops.

“I just want to take your cock inside my mouth and suck it dry,” he says. “It’d be the first one I’d ever had. Y’think the size will make my jaw hurt?”

Felix gives a curt exhale, something of a laugh. Sylvain should sound less like he’s asking genuine questions about it, probably. “It might,” Felix says cryptically. “You wouldn’t give up, would you?”

“Nooo,” he swears. “Not at all. I just might… stick to licking for a bit. Swirl my tongue around the head and suckle kisses into your cock. I’d love to tease you a bit, bite into your thighs as I stroke you _slow_—”

“No teasing,” nitpicks Felix, breath jumping just a little.

Sylvain can tell already he’s jacking off over there and his ego swells. “No teasing it is,” he complies.

“Tell me where you’re sucking me off.”

“Oh, anywhere you want me to,” Sylvain says. “I’ve got room in my car to let the seats back, lean over and get my head in your lap. You seem fond of the bathroom at your work, maybe someone could hear you? Maybe while you’re on call at your house, and I corner you in the kitchen and pin your hips up against the counter?”

It’s easy to imagine this last scenario considering he’s in a kitchen of all places. The pizza’s likely cool at this point but, well, Sylvain’s a bit busy.

“I’d love to catch you before you’ve had the chance to unwind from work and you’re still in all your clothes, and I just pull your cock out and get to work right away. I get impatient.”

“_I know_,” Felix hisses, recalling a number of early orgasms, and yet all Sylvain can do is snicker.

His pulse quickens. His heart glows fondly.

“You know, but I’d take my time with you. I’d run my tongue all over your cock and fondle your balls in my hand. Kiss it all over. Wet my lips with your pre-cum. Get a taste for you. Get hungry for more.”

“Filthy,” Felix spits.

“You love it,” whispers Sylvain. “You’re stroking your cock so fast over there, wishing you could fuck my mouth, come inside my throat, make me hoarse in the voice—”

“_You_ love it,” corrects Felix.

“Won’t say I don’t,” he laughs. “Won’t say I don’t want to suck you off, see you get all rigid and boneless as I shove it to the back of my throat and learn how to gag on it.”

“Y-you wouldn’t.”

“I could.”

Felix stammers, equal parts seemingly amused and breathless. The sound is beautiful and Sylvain feels arrow after arrow lodge itself in his chest. They don’t miss his heart at all.

“Y-you c-couldn’t handle deep throating, not in your f-first go.”

Felix gets the words out, but Sylvain’s catching more and more ‘_ah—_’ sounds seeping out of the hollow in his throat, leaking across the receiver. Sylvain runs his hand along the cylinders in the chair back, wishing he could have Felix’s cock in his hand if he can’t have his own.

“You make me wanna try,” he says in a grin. “Wanna make you come real bad. Wanna make you shiver around me, say my name, pull my hair, feel the best you’ve ever felt. Want you on my tongue. Want you however I can have you.”

And the words seem to be doing their worst on Felix. He sighs. He clears his throat. He tries, at least Sylvain thinks, to not sound so vocal, so obvious about how utterly smothered by pleasure he is. It’s funny. It’s _cute._ It makes Sylvain ask, “are you close?”

So honestly, _too_ honestly, Felix mumbles out, “yes,” and Sylvain sits up straighter.

“Good. Look at you, feeling so good. I want you to know the next time I see you, I’m going to do all of this. I’m gonna pin you down and suck you until you’re begging and screaming. I want you to tighten your thighs around my neck and come so hard—”

“_Sylvain_,” Felix gasps.

“Yeah?” Sylvain rasps. “Come for me, Felix. I wanna hear you, don’t be silent. It’s my favorite sound. I love it, I love…”

_Whoa._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you guys so much for your continued love!


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